STORIES  FROM  MY  ATTIC. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

4 DREAM-CHILDREN  "   AND    "  SEVEN   LITTLE   PEOPLE    AXU    THEIB 
FRIENDS." 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY. 

New  York:   11  East  Seventeenth  Street. 

(Cbe  Ribereibe  15re0£f, 
1900. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18C9,  by 

HORACE  E.  SCUDDBB, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

Copyright,  1897, 
BY  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A.. 
Printed  by  II.  O.  Hough  ton  &  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

THE  ATTTC 1 

IN  THE  WINDOW  SEAT. 

LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE 9 

HENS 22 

A  STOKT  THAT  I  MEAN  TO  WBTTB    ....  25 

An  AUGUST  NIGHT         .......  28 

AT  CHRISTMAS  TIME 34 

AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES    ....  89 
With  an  illustration  from  a  photograph. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SPURS       ...  54 

SIB  WALTER  SCOTT 61 

With  an  illustration  of  Sir  WoMer't  Study,  from  a  photograph. 

THE  SINGING  OF  THE  SEIBENS         ....  73 

FRANCIS  HUBER 78 

With  a  portrait. 

WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

THE  Music  PARTY 87 

WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART 110 

With  a  portrait. 

THE  EETURN  OF  ORPHEUS 124 

BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  As  GOOD  AS  A  PLAY  " 131 

THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  OLD  DANIEL        .       .       .  137 

THB  NEIGHBORS .       .  147 

With  an  illustration  by  H.  L.  Stephen* 


2138049 


IT  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GOOD  ANI>  BAD  APPLES 166 

THREE  WISE  LITTLB  BOYS 177 

With  an  illustration  by  Coartiand  Hqppin. 

TOM  AND  JOM 200 

THE  VISION  OP  JOHN  THE  WATCHMAN      ...  209 

THE  STORY  THAT  NKVKB  WAS  TOLD        .       .  221 

ROMANCE. 

EOSK  Jam  EOSELLA.       .......  S36 


STORIES  FROM  MY  ATTIC. 


THE  ATTIC. 

IN  the  house  where  I  live  I  have  chosen 
to  take  possession  of  the  attic.  Here,  quite 
above  the  ordinary  street  sounds,  I  sit  at  my 
desk,  or  before  my  fire,  or  climb  into  my  cush- 
ioned window-seat,  where  the  world  can  get  at 
me  only  by  toiling  up-stairs,  while  heavenly  vis- 
itors, as  they  come  flying  down  the  roof,  find  my 
attic  their  first  resting-place.  Yet  I  am  not  so 
far  off  from  a  very  pleasant  world  ;  I  have  only 
to  open  my  door  of  an  evening,  and  pretty 
notes  of  music  steal  up  from  the  instrument 
two  flights  below,  and  I  know  that  a  few  skips 
will  take  me  into  the  family  room  by  the 
centre-table  and  in  hearing  of  the  piano. 

For  all  that  I  love  my  attic  best,  and  here  I 
have  come  to  live,  and  living,  to  gather  about 
me  so  many  neighbors  of  thought  and  fancy, 
that  I  would  play  the  part  of  host  for  a  little 
while,  and  open  my  room  to  living  guests. 
Come  up  into  my  su  any  garret ! 


2  STORIES  FROM  MY  ATTIC. 

The  ceiling  is  not  high,  and  on  the  street 
side  it  slopes  toward  the  floor,  suddenly  stop- 
ping, however,  as  if  it  were  afraid  to  go  any 
further,  lest  it  slip  off  altogether.  The  win- 
dow is  bolder,  for  it  stands  at  the  very  edge, 
calmly  leaning  on  its  elbows  on  the  roof,  and 
looking  over  the  street  and  the  little  park, 
and  off  to  the  country  beyond  ;  it  has  its  own 
little  roof,  which  is  on  very  good  terms  with 
the  roof  of  the  attic ;  they  have  a  common 
gutter  and  pipe,  and  agree  to  let  all  their  rain 
go  into  the  common  stock. 

The  attic  then  has  but  one  window,  but  that 
is  so  large  and  so  high  that  the  light  coming 
through  it  finds  its  way  into  every  part  of  the 
little  room.  Within  the  window  I  have  built 
a  window-seat.  Standing  upright,  my  head  is 
a  little  above  the  sill  of  the  window.  So  I  have 
( arranged  a  flight  of  three  steps,  which  I 
gravely  mount  as  if  ascending  a  throne,  and 
there,  at  the  top,  is  my  broad  window-seat,  from 
which  I  can  look  over  the  roof,  down  into  the 
street,  or  on  to  the  little  park.  Beyond  the 
park  was  a  great  manufactory.  One  night  it 
took  fire ;  from  my  window-seat,  where  it  was 
light  as  day,  I  saw  the  flames  rushing  up.  The 
next  morning  it  was  as  if  some  fairy  had  been 
at  work  ;  the  great  building  was  burned  to  the 


THE  ATTIC.  3 

ground  ;  but  now  I  saw  what  it  had  hidden  — 
a  green  cemetery,  and  just  beyond  the  top  of  a 
church  tower  that  looked  like  a  blunt  pencil,  01 
crayon,  and  I  suppose  the  clouds  that  I  see 
above  it  sometimes  are  the  figures  it  traces  on 
the  sky.  In  another  direction  I  can  see  into 
the  hilly  country,  and  by  craning  my  neck  out 
of  the  window  I  can  see  sails  in  the  bay.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  can  see  a  good  deal  of  the 
world  from  my  window-seat. 

But  though  there  is  no  hour  of  the  day  when 
it  does  not  afford  me  a  bright  watch-tower 
from  which  to  spy  out  the  land,  I  am  not 
sure  but  I  like  best  those  shady  hours  when  I 
curl  myself  up  on  the  seat  and  look  sometimes 
out  on  the  shadows  below,  oftener  in  upon  the 
many  cornered  room,  and  at  last  I  draw  the 
red  curtain  across  the  window  and  watch  the 
fire-light  as  it  plays  at  hide  and  seek  about  the 
walls,  running  in  behind  pictures  and  then* 
scampering  back  to  the  black  coal.  If  I  have 
anything  pleasant  to  think  about,  it  will  dance 
in  and  out  of  my  mind  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
flashing  fire-light. 

One  cannot  always  be  thus  half  dreaming. 
If  he  does  nothing  then  he  will  have  nothing 
to  think  of,  and  at  such  times  I  often  clamber 
down  from  my  perch  and  seat  myself  at  my 


4  STORIES  FROM  MY  ATTIC. 

study  table  to  read  and  write  and  study. 
Everything  is  so  near  by  that  I  can  almost 
reach  my  shelves  from  my  table.  The  books 
stand  in  their  rows  waiting  to  be  taken  down, 
and  when  one  goes,  his  neighbors  immediately 
lean  on  each  other  and  whisper  about  him  till 
he  comes  back.  And  there  are  a  few  untidy, 
forlorn  books,  poor  relations  and  meanly  clad, 
that  lead  a  wretched  life  in  the  dark  behind 
the  other  books,  poked  out  of  sight  and  some- 
times left  for  months  leaning  their  heads 
against  the  wall.  There  is  one  old  fellow,  a 
fat  dictionary  in  shirt  sleeves,  that  has  been  in 
all  the  backyards  to  the  very  top  of  the  book- 
shelves. He  began  life  respectably  ;  he  was  fat 
indeed,  but  well  dressed,  until  a  little  dog  one 
day  got  hold  of  him  and  ate  the  back  of  his 
coat  entirely  off.  I  let  him  stay  amongst  his 
brother  dictionaries  out  of  pity,  for  some  time, 
out  he  looked  so  ashamed  that  finally  I  slid  him 
slyly  behind  them,  and  ever  since  he  has  been 
living  in  dark  corners  and  in  the  backyards  of 
the  shelves.  When  I  want  to  make  an  inquiry 
of  him,  I  hardly  know  where  to  find  him,  but 
have  to  search  all  his  haunts.  He  looks  very 
miserable  when  I  bring  him  out. 

Sometimes,  as  I  have  said,  I  leave  the  door 
ajar,  and  as  1   study  there  comes   a  whiff  of 


THE  ATTIC.  5 

music  from  the  room  below,  and  many  a  time  I 
slip  down  and  forget  the  old  attic   and   my 
books  and  do  not  go  up  again  till  another  day. 
Yet  I  believe  I  never  turn  to  go  out  of  the 
3oor  without  giving  a  half  regretful  look  at 
ny  fire.     That,  after  all,  is  the  real  occupant  of 
the   room.      It   owns   everything,  and   I  may 
come  and  visit  it.     There  it  sits  in  its  comfort- 
able iron  chair,  and  I  feed  it  with  coal,  and  dust 
about  it,  and  sweep  up  around  it,  and  some- 
times sit  down  before  it  with  the  bellows,  and 
gently  tickle  it  with  faint  puffs  of  wind  that 
make  it  jump  and  laugh  with  pleasure.     Then 
it  gets  to  burning  steadily  and  with    hearty 
cheer,  and  I  take  my  rug  and  stretch  myself 
before  it,  or  sink  into  my  easy  chair  while  it 
tells  me  stories  and  crackles  over  its  bright 
fancies.     Just  over  it  is  a  light  mantel  holding 
trifles ;    among  them  a  bronze  monk  with  a 
caudle  in  his  hand  and  afflicted  with  a  painful 
sense  of  a  hinge  in  his  back.     Yet  he  reads 
calmly  on.     I  unhinge  him  to  take  out  a  match 
from  under  his  girdle  —  with  his  head  thrown 
alarmingly  back  he  still  reads  ;    I  shut  him  up 
with  a  snap,  and  he  reads  calmly  on.     Below 
the  shelf  is  a  row  of  plaster  casts  from  mar- 
.bles  on  the  Temple  of  Apollo  at  Bassae.     The 
'marbles  are  very  large;  these  casts  are  very 


6  STORIES  FROM  MY  ATTIC. 

small,  but  there  is  a  prodigious  amount  of  life 
going  on  over  them  —  horses  and  men  strug- 
gling together  and  so  tangled  up  that  I  never 
have  quite  made  out  which  is  to  be  victorious. 
So  there  is  a  little  touch  of  history  on  my 
chimney. 

Best  of  all  is  it  when  I  have  drawn  my  chair 
before  the  fire  and  my  little  niece  comes  in  by 
the  doorway,  like  a  bit  of  the  music  which 
sometimes  steals  up  to  me,  and  finds  a  place 
somewhere  in  the  chair,  and  we  look  at  the  fire, 
and  then  she  tells  me  stories,  and  I  tell  her  of 
the  time  when  she  used  to  climb  into  the 
paper  basket  and  I  carried  her  down  to  sell  her 
to  grandmother. 

It  happens  to  me  now  that  I  must  leave  my 
attic  for  another  home.  I  have  packed  my 
books  and  taken  the  pictures  from  the  walls. 
The  red  carpet  is  rolled  up,  the  red  cushion 
stowed  away,  the  desk  and  chairs  move  off  in 
a  procession  down- stairs.  How  shall  I  carry 
away  the  fancies  and  stories  and  thoughts 
which  have  endeared  the  room  to  me  ?  Some 
indeed  have  already  gone  out  with  me  into  so- 
ciety ;  I  will  gather  those  that  seem  most  fit- 
ting and  so  go  out  from  my  little  attic.  Heaven 
send  those  who  sit  there  after  me  as  pleasant 
hours  as  I  have  had,  and  so  forth  we  go,  mj 
Uttle  book  and  I. 


IN   THE   WINDOW-SEAT. 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE. 

Eigld  o'clock  in  the  Evening. 

IT  is  snowing1  and  blowing  out-of-doors,  and 
I  have  drawn  the  red  curtain  across  my  win- 
dow, hut  sit  in  my  window-seat  still,  with  my 
feet  drawn  up  on  the  cushion.  The  gas  in  the 
pipe  is  not  lighted  yet,  but  the  gas  in  the  coal 
is  lighted,  and  flashes  out  of  the  fire-place  most 
cheerily.  It  makes  everything  very  distinct, 
and  looking  about  I  find  nothing  better  to  rest 
my  eyes  on  than  a  picture  which  hangs  over 
the  mantel-shelf.  It  has  no  name  except  the 
one  that  I  give  it ;  for  the  artist  who  drew  it 
put  no  name  upon  it,  and  he  died  forty  years 
ago.  It  is  "  The  Entrance"  by  William  Blake ; 
and  as  I  sit  in  my  snuggery,  the  storm  howl- 
ing outside,  this  picture  takes  my  recollections 
and  my  imaginings  across  the  ocean,  and  back 
to  the  time  when  William  Blake  made  it.  I 
found  it  in  a  picture-store  on  the  famous 
Strand  of  London,  as  one  of  the  great  streets 
running  parallel  with  the  Thames  is  called. 
It  had  been  lying  neglected  there  for  some 
time,  waiting  for  some  one  to  come  who  had 


10  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

heard  of  its  maker,  and  who  would  buy  it  for 
his  sake  as  well  as  for  its  own.  A  little  way 
from  the  picture-store  is  a  sort  of  rat-hole 
alley-way  leading  from  the  Strand,  and  called 
Fountain  Court.  There  are  a  great  many  such 
courts  in  London ;  one  sees  a  dark  passage- 
way not  much  larger  than  a  man's  body,  and 
going  in  through  an  arch  he  comes  out  into  a 
little  court,  closed  all  about,  and  occupied  by 
dingy  houses.  In  this  dismal  Fountain  Court, 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  never  heard  of  even 
a  pail  of  water,  was  a  house  which  I  went  to 
look  at,  because  in  it  had  lived  once  William 
Blake.  Some  old  clothes  were  hanging  out  of 
the  windows,  and  some  slatternly  women  and 
children  were  about.  It  was  no  doubt  a  little 
cleaner  looking  when  William  Blake  and  his 
wife  lived  there,  and  from  the  window  of  one 
of  these  two  rooms  they  could  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  river  and  hills  beyond,  but  it  never  could 
have  been  a  very  bright  or  cheerful  spot.  I 
fear  that  most  people  living  there  would  be- 
come like  the  place  —  stupid  and  indifferent  to 
anything  higher  or  better  than  a  pipe  and  a 
glass  of  beer. 

Here,  however,  William  Blake  lived,  and 
painted  pictures,  and  wrote  poems,  and  his  pic- 
tures became  more  wonderful  as  he  grew  older. 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE.  11 

He  painted  what  he  saw  about  him.  Fountain 
Court,  and  people  going  through  it  with  mugs 
of  beer  in  their  hands  ?  No,  for  he  was  not 
looking  at  such  sights  much.  When  he  was  a 
little  boy,  he  came  home  one  day  and  told  his 
mother  that  he  had  seen  a  tree  filled  with 
angels,  bright  angelic  wings  bespang'ling  every 
bough,  like  stars ;  and  again,  going  out  into 
the  fields,  where  the  hay-makers  were  at  work, 
he  saw  them  raking  hay,  and  amid  them  were 
bright  angels  walking.  We  sometimes  say, 
especially  in  hymns,  that  with  the  eye  of  faith 
we  may  see  the  heavenly  country  and  the  spirits 
that  dwell  there,  but  our  eyes  are  nevertheless 
looking  hard  at  the  ground  or  the  bricks  about 
us.  Now  Blake  had  this  eye  of  faith,  and  so 
clear  was  it  that  he  constantly  seemed  to  be 
seeing  beautiful  or  terrible  spirits,  when  others 
saw  nothing  but  muddy  London  streets,  and  so 
what  he  saw  he  painted. 

There  were  some  around  him  who  cared  for 
these  things,  but  most  people  could  not  see 
what  he  saw,  and  they  blamed  him  for  being  so 
foolish.  He  did  not  mind  them.  He  said  that 
God  was  showing  him  these  wonderful  sights, 
and  it  would  not  be  right  if  he  were  to  turn 
away  and  look  at  what  other  men  cared  about. 
even  though  he  could  then  paint  pictures  which 


12  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

men  would  admire,  and  give  him  great  suuia 
'of  money  for.  Once  be  wrote  about  him- 
self, — 

"  The  Angel  who  presided  at  my  birth 

Said  :  '  Little  creature,  formed  of  joy  and  mirth, 
Go  love  without  the  help  of  anything  on  earth.' " 

But  wben  any  listened  to  bim,  or  spoke,  wbo 
felt  as  he  did,  they  loved  him  more  than  they 
could  tell.  They  were  few  who  cared  for  him 
and  his  work,  but  he  said :  "  I  see  the  face  of 
my  Heavenly  Father :  He  lays  His  hand  upon 
my  head,  and  gives  a  blessing  to  all  my  work.'* 
When  he  drew  a  face,  he  was  thinking  of 
what  the  man  had  suffered  and  enjoyed,  and 
how  much  be  had  thought  of  those  things 
which  would  last  forever,  and  how  little  of 
what  was  soon  to  pass  away.  He  drew  many 
pictures  of  the  life  of  Job.  You  wbo  have 
read  the  Book  of  Job  in  the  Bible  know  that 
it  is  wonderful  and  deep,  and  that  it  has  not 
much  to  say  about  the  destruction  of  Job's 
house,  and  the  disease  which  wasted  Job ;  but 
a  great  deal  concerning  God,  and  the  stars 
which  he  made,  and  man's  soul,  more  wonder- 
ful than  the  stars.  So  Blake,  as  if  he  had 
been  with  Job  and  his  friends,  put  into  pic- 
tures what  they  felt,  and  the  pictures  are  only 
less  glorious  than  the  words  which  we  can 
read. 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE.  13 

Besides  painting  what  he  saw,  Blake  wrote 
down  what  he  heard,  and  some  very  strange 
things  he  wrote,  for  his  ear  was  like  a  musical 
instrument  out  of  tune  in  some  of  its  notes ; 
when  these  were  struck  there  was  a  discord, 
and  we  can  make  out  no  tune  ;  but  some  of  the 
notes  were  clear,  and  when  these  were  struck, 
a  beautiful  sound  went  out,  which  Blake  caught 
in  words  and  sang  for  us.  Whatever  was 
simple  and  truthful  and  lovely  went  to  his 
heart ;  and  he  was  not  easily  deceived  by  out- 
side appearances,  but  knew  how  to  see  a  heart 
that  could  be  touched,  even  when  most  would 
think  the  owner  of  it  a  hard  and  hateful  man  ; 
if  there  was  anything  worth  loving,  he  was 
quite  sure  to  love  it,  because  he  knew  that 
God  did  too.  Here  are  some  lines  of  his  upon 

THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

When  my  mother  died  I  was  very  yoting, 
And  my  father  sold  me  while  yet  my  tongue 
Could  scarcely  cry,  "  'weep,  'weep !  'weep,  'weep  !  " 
So  your  chimneys  I  sweep,  and  in  soot  I  sleep. 

There's  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when  his  head, 
That  curled  like  a  lamb's  back,  was  shaved ;  so  I  said,  — 
"  Hush,  Tom !  never  mind  it,  for  when  your  head's  bare, 
You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your  white  hair." 

And  so  he  was  quiet,  anr  that  very  night, 
As  Tom  was  a  sleeping,  ae  had  such  a  sight : 


U  AV  THE   }YINDOW-SEAT. 

That  thousands  of  sweepors,  Dick,  Joe,  Ned,  and  Jack, 
Were  all  of  them  lock'd  up  in  coffins  of  black. 

And  by  came  an  angel  who  had  a  bright  key, 
And  he  opened  the  coffins  and  set  them  all  free ; 
Then  down  a  green  plain,  leaping,  laughing,  they  run, 
And  wash  in  a  river,  and  shine  in  the  sun. 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  bags  left  behind, 
They  rise  upon  clouds  and  sport  in  the  wind; 
And  the  angel  told  Tom,  "  If  he'd  be  a  good  boy, 
He'd  have  God  for  his  father,  and  never  want  joy." 

And  so  Tom  awoke,  and  we  rose  in  the  dark, 
And  got,  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes,  to  work ; 
Though  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy  and  i»  arm, 
So,  if  all  do  their  duty,  they  need  not  fear  harm. 

Here  is  another,  which  is  called 

THE  LITTLE  BLACK  BOY. 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  Southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  oh,  my  soul  is  white ; 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say: 

*  Look  on  the  rising  sun,  —  there  God  does  live, 

And  gives  His  light,  and  gives  His  heat  away ; 
And  flowers,  and  trees,  and  beasts,  and  men  receir* 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE.  15 

"And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love ; 
And  these  black  bodies,  and  this  sunburnt  face, 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learnt  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  His  voice 
Saying,  '  Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice.'  " 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 
And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy : 
"When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 
And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy, 

I'll  shade  him  from  the  heat  till  he  can  bear 
To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee ; 

And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me." 

Those  who  have  "  The  Children's  Garland," 
a  very  pleasing  little  collection  of  poetry  for 
children,  will  find  two  of  Blake's  poems  in  it, 
and  I  will  give  just  one  more :  — 

THE  LAMB. 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight,  — 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright ; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tende*-  roice. 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice ; 


16  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thce  ? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  ; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  himself  a  Lamb  : 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild, 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee ! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

William  Blake  was  not  always  happy,  even 
though  he  had  such  beautiful  sights  before 
him;  many  times  he  was  harsh  and  bitter, 
oftener  he  was  weighed  down  with  troubles, 
but  one  thing  he  never  lost  sight  of —  that  to 
live  in  the  love  of  God  was  what  would  last ; 
and,  remembering  this,  he  beat  down  whatever 
rose  to  disturb  it,  whether  discomfort  about 
him  or  sinful  enemies  within ;  so  that  at  the 
last  of  life,  when  he  lay  down  poor  and  almost 
neglected,  save  by  his  beloved  wife  and  a  very 
few  steadfast  friends,  he  chanted  and  sang 
melodies  that  rose  from  his  heart  to  his  lips, 
and  with  these  bright  songs  and  happy  words, 
he  left  the  world. 

I  look  once  more  at  the  picture  over  my 
mantel.  It  is  not  hard  to  read  it  after  reading 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE.  17 

of  Blake.  Two  angelic  beings  stand  waiting 
at  the  opening  doors,  their  faces  turned  wist- 
fully downward  to  the  cloud  below,  out  of 
which  ascends  one  whose  face  we  do  not  see, 
but  whose  hands  are  outstretched  as  she  rises 
to  that  world  which  she  has  seen  with  the  eye 
of  faith.  Now  the  doors  are  open  for  hei. 
So,  like  William  Blake,  she  enters  in. 

Eleven  o'clock  in  the  Morning. 

That  was  in  the  winter  time  when  I  sat  in 
my  window-seat.  It  is  warm  enough  now  to 
sit  with  the  window  open  and  look  out-of- 
doors.  I  look  over  the  roofs  of  houses  and 
see  churches  that  rise  higher,  and  from  the 
street  below  comes  the  sound  of  children  play- 
ing on  the  little  square  of  smiling  green,  with 
its  fountain  of  laughing  water.  The  churches 
and  the  children,  the  children  and  the  churches 
run  in  my  mind,  and  suddenly  there  comes  to 
me  the  recollection  of  a  festival  which  I  once 
attended  on  the  very  first  day  of  this  summer 
month,  —  a  festival  in  a  great  church  in  the 
heart  of  a  great  city.  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  in 
London  is  greater  than  any  church  which  any 
of  us  know  in  America ;  when  one  climbs  the 
hill  on  which  it  stands,  coming  up  through 
crooked  lanes  and  crowded  streets,  he  comes 
2 


18  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

suddenly  upon  this  great  building-  which 
gathers  around  and  beneath  a  lofty  dome 
lifted  high  above  all  the  houses  about,  higher 
3ven  than  the  smoke  that  hangs  over  the  city. 
[t  is  of  white  stone,  which  has  become  so 
larkened  in  many  places  by  the  smoke  and 
rrime  and  fog  of  London,  that  one  thinks  of  it 
is  a  black  building  upon  which  the  moon  is 
shining,  and  very  beautifully  do  the  long  rays 
[>f  white  steal  down  into  the  blackness. 

It  was  this  Cathedral  that  I  entered  on  the 
forenoon  of  the  first  day  of  June,  while  omni- 
buses and  drays  and  carriages  were  rumbling 
in  the  streets,  and  all  London  had  opened  its 
millions  of  eyes  and  was  busy  with  its  millions 
of  hands.  Into  the  church  I  went  and  sat  be- 
neath the  great  dome.  There  was  a  sound 
here,  too,  but  it  was  of  thousands  of  little 
voices  whispering,  and  thousands  of  little 
hands  rustling.  Around  the  dome,  from  floor 
to  gallery,  had  been  built  tiers  of  wooden  seats, 
and  there  came  filing  in  troops  of  children, 
who  climbed  in  order,  and  took  their  places  on 
the  benches,  until  there  were  five  thousand 
boys  and  girls  filling  the  seats. 

They  were  children  from  the  charity  schools 
of  London,  and  each  school  was  dressed  in 
uniform,  but  all  the  schools  were  not  dressed 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE.  19 

alike ;  so  that  one  saw  green  and  blue  and  or- 
ange and  white  ribbons  of  clean  little  children 
floating  down  to  the  floor.  Little  girls  in  droll 
white  caps,  yellow  sleeves,  and  blue  dresses. 
with  white  kerchiefs,  sat  together  above  ;  while 
below  were  boys  in  dark-blue  clothes  and  broad 
white  collars.  By  each  school  or  class  was  a 
teacher,  and  against  one  of  the  pillars  was 
hung  a  little  box,  in  which  stood  the  leader  of 
music.  Below  were  thousands  more  of  older 
people  who  had  come  to  hear  the  children  sing. 
There  was  service  held.  At  the  time  of 
prayer  five  thousand  little  hands  rustled  and 
covered  the  eyes,  the  girls  lifting  their  white 
aprons.  But  at  the  time  of  singing,  one  pure 
song  rose  from  the  sweet  fresh  voices.  I  could 
not  hear  the  reader ;  he  was  too  far  away  ;  but 
every  now  and  then,  on  what  seemed  perfect 
stillness,  there  rose  from  the  children's  throats 
a  song  of  praise,  or  the  simple  Amen,  which 
seemed  to  rise  as  on  wings,  and  pass  up  the 
high  dome,  up  through  the  windows,  far  above, 
escaping  to  heaven.  Last  of  all  came  that 
chorus,  which,  perhaps,  some  of  you  have 
jeard  from  great  choirs,  —  Hallelujah !  for  the 
uord  God  omnipotent  reigneth :  the  kingdom  oj 
this  world  is  become  the  kingdom  of  our  Lord  and 
»/  His  Christ,  and  He  shall  reign  forever  and  ever, 


20  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

King  of  Icings,  and  Lord  of  lords.  Hallelujah  I 
It  was  the  musician  Handel,  the  writer  of  the 
music  for  these  words,  who  began  this  yearly 
celebration  in  the  days  of  George  the  Third. 

When  all  was  over,  I  went  and  stood  by  the 
door  outside.  The  children  passed  out  by  two 
and  two,  led  by  parish  beadles  who  walked  be- 
fore with  staves,  and  so  they  moved  away  down 
the  London  streets  to  their  homes  again.  As 
I  stood  there  I  thought  of  one  who  had  also 
seen  these  children  and  heard  them  sing  years 
ago  ;  one  who  sang  in  his  heart  when  their 
voices  were  lifted  up,  and  who  wrote  afterward 
what  he  sang  to  himself.  It  was  William 
Blake  that  wrote  these  words  :  — 

HOLY    THUKSDAY. 

Twas  on  a  Holy  Thursday,  their  innocent  faces  clean, 

Came  children  walking  two  and  two,  in  red  and  blue  and  green ; 

Gray-headed  beadles  walked  before,  with  wands  as  white  as 

snow, 
Till  into  the  high  dome  of  Paul's  they  like  Thames'  watera 

flow. 

Oh  what  a  multitude  they  seemed,  these  flowers  of  Londoi 

town, 

Seated  in  companies  they  were,  with  radiance  all  their  own  ; 
The  hum  of  multitudes  was  there,  but  multitudes  of  lambs, 
Thousands  of  boys  and  girls  raising  their  innocent  hands. 

Now  like  a  mighty  wind  they  raise  to  heaven  the  voice  of  song 
Or  like  harmonious  thunderings  the  seats  of  heaven  among ; 


LOOKING  AT  A  PICTURE.  21 

Beneath  them  sit  the  aged  men,  wise  guardians  of  the  poor : 
Then  cherish  pity,  lest  you  drive  an  angel  from  your  door. 

The  children  must  be  singing  to-day.  I  do 
not  see  the  churches ;  I  do  not  hear  the  chil- 
dren playing  in  the  street ;  I  am  under  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's :  a  mighty  Hallelujah  is 
rising. 


HENS. 

At  Cackling-timc. 

IT  is  useless  for  me  to  pretend  that  I  see 
hens  from  my  city  window-seat.  There  is  not 
even  a  weathercock  in  sight,  but  my  cushioned 
roost  is  just  as  much  a  place  for  me  to  see 
things  from  with  my  memory's  eye,  as  with 
the  real  ones  that  wander  out-doors  and  in,  like 
hens  themselves,  picking  up  one  object  and 
another  in  an  aimless  sort  of  way  and  cackling 
over  them.  I  remember  a  delightful  evening 
when  I  was  out  driving  by  the  banks  of  the 
Charles  River,  in  Massachusetts.  We  came  to 
a  spot  which  was  hemmed  in  behind  a  hill  and 
bounded  in  front  by  the  river,  while  on  the  side 
was  a  thick  wood ;  the  place  was  flat  grass- 
land, and  looked  like  a  small  camp.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  camp  of  hens.  O.nly  the  most  venture- 
some ever  strayed  near  the  wood,  and  they  had 
no  wish  to  go  into  the  river.  A  half  dozen 
rude  shanties  stood  together,  and  dozens  of 
little  coops  lay  scattered  about.  It  was  sun- 
down, and  the  hens  and  crowers  had  all  gone 
to  roost,  .while  those  that  had  broods  were 


HENS.  23 

auugly  housed  in  the  coops.  But  the  farmer 
obligingly  went  in,  and  routed  out  the  sleepy 
fowls  from  their  houses.  It  was  a  funny  sight 
to  see  them  come  tumbling,  cackling,  and 
crowing  out  of  the  shanties,  one  after  the 
other,  each  seemingly  whiter  than  the  last ; 
for  the  wonder  was  there  was  not  a  black 
feather  among  them,  and  there  were  over  two 
hundred  old  fellows  and  as  many  chickens : 
all  were  pure  white,  and  the  man  had,  at  one 
time,  five  hundred  perfectly  white  fowls.  The 
whole  company  were  clacking  about  as  if  waked 
out  of  dreams,  strutting  around  in  a  bewildered 
manner.  The  farmer  showered  corn  among 
them,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  pay  much  at- 
tention to  that.  They  walked  sleepily  about, 
and  at  last,  one  by  one,  found  their  way  back 
to  their  roosts,  where  they  went  to  sleep  again ; 
and,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  this  day,  such  of  them 
as  live,  talk  over  that  time  when,  somehow, 
they  had  two  days  in  one. 

I  have  known  several  hens  quite  intimately, 
and  some  by  reputation.  One  I  have  not 
heard  of  for  some  time,  but  it  was  living  forty 
years  ago  on  one  leg,  having  lost  the  other  by 
being  run  over,  I  think.  It  hopped  about  in  a 
lively  fashion,  picking  up  a  living,  and  seemed 
to  be  thought  none  the  less  of  for  being  one- 


24  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

legged.  A  hen  is  a  gentle-looking  creature, 
and  seems  to  be  so  foolish  that  if  a  carriage  is 
coming  along  the  road,  she  will  scuttle  across 
the  road  in  front  of  it  to  get  out  of  its  way, 
instead  of  staying  still  where  she  is.  But  did 
you  ever  see  a  hen  with  a  hrood  of  chickens 
under  her,  —  how  she  gathers  them  under  her 
wings  and  will  stay  in  the  cold  if  she  can  only 
keep  them  warm,  —  and  how  she  guards  them 
so  carefully  that  she  is  really  fierce  toward  any 
one  who  tries  to  get  her  chicks  away  ?  I  have 
seen  this,  and  I  have  read,  as,  no  doubt,  some  of 
you  have,  of  One  who  loved  men  so,  that  when 
they  would  not  come  to  Him  for  His  blessing, 
He  said,  sadly,  "  How  often  would  I  have 
gathered  thy  children  together,  even  as  a  hen 
gathereth  her  chickens  under  her  wings,  and 
ye  would  not !  "  If  the  Saviour  can  speak  of 
the  hen  thus,  I  think  we  may  be  reminded  of 
Him  and  His  words  by  a  great  many  things 
which  we  see  constantly,  —  the  wheat  growing 
in  the  field,  the  doves  that  fly  about  the  streets, 
the  lambs  that  are  on  the  hills,  and  the  boat 
that  rocks  on  the  waves. 


A  STORY  THAT  I  MEAN  TO  WRITE 

The  Hour  of  Bells  and  Crackers. 

I  HAVE  set  up  a  garden  on  the  roof,  outside 
of  my  window.  When  I  was  a  little  boy  I 
used  to  see  pictures  in  books  of  gardens  on 
roofs  in  Germany,  with  little  children  sitting 
among  the  flower-pots  ;  and  my  notion  of 
oriental  houses  was  of  flat-roofed  buildings 
laid  out  on  top  with  flower-beds,  and  people 
walking  up  and  down  gravel  walks.  Now  that 
I  am  grown  up,  I  have  a  garden  four  feet 
long  and  nine  —  inches  broad ;  but  as  the  roof 
is  rather  narrow,  I  have  to  sit  inside  on  my 
window-seat  and  admire  my  garden.  To  make 
sure  of  having  flowers,  I  planted  verbenas  and 
heliotropes  just  ready  to  blossom,  and  one  tuft 
of  lobelia  already  in  flower ;  so  I  consider  my 
garden  a  very  flourishing  one.  Besides,  there 
are  morning-glory  seeds  in  the  box,  and  when 
the  vines  are  grown  I  think  that  they  will 
climb  over  my  window,  and  make  it  so  dark 
with  blue  flowers  and  green  leaves  that  I  shall 
have  to  desert  my  window-seat  and  go  into  the 
country  for  light. 


26  7AT  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

Just  now,  looking  into  my  garden,  and  over 
it  into  the  street,  and  beyond  and  up  into  the 
sky,  I  begin  to  think  of  a  story  which  I  mean 
to  tell  some  day,  but  which  just  now  is  a  little 
backward,  like  the  mignonette  and  morning- 
glory  seeds  in  my  garden.  I  have  long  wanted 
to  tell  the  story,  and  once  began  it  and  wrote 
a  few  sentences.  It  is  to  be  a  story  about  a 
Rocket.  I  have  not  decided  yet  why  and 
where  the  Rocket  is  to  be  let  off;  but  there  is 
to  be  a  little  boy  to  touch  it  off,  and  I  have  had 
some  thoughts  of  fastening  something  on  to 
the  Rocket  which  it  shall  carry  up  into  the 
sky.  Once  I  thought  of  having  a  grasshopper 
skip  on  to  it  just  as  it  was  going  up,  —  a  very 
ambitious  and  self-conceited  grasshopper  who 
would  be  telling  his  neighbors  that  he  was 
going  to  jump  very  high,  and  sure  enough, 
should,  much  to  his  own  astonishment,  jump  a 
prodigious  height  by  means  of  the  Rocket.  I 
have  not  thought  so  much  about  the  going  up 
of  the  Rocket,  however,  as  I  have  of  the  coming 
down  ;  and  here  I  mean  once  for  all  to  do  jus- 
tice to  the  much-abused  Rocket-stick,  which  is 
always  being  laughed  at  and  treated  contempt- 
uously, as  if  it  were  its  fault  and  not  its  virtue 
that  it  should  come  down  quietty  and  in  the 
dark.  The  Rocket-stick  in  my  story  is  to  be 


A  STORY  THAT  I  MEAN  TO  WRITE.        27 

tied  on  patiently  and  to  go  up  calmly,  without 
having  its  head  turned  by  the  great  fuss  going 
on  over  it,  and  then,  coming  down,  I  mean  to 
have  it  meet  with  a  very  delightful  surprise. 
1  have  not  yet  determined  what  the  end  shall 
be,  but  rather  think  I  shall  make  it  come  down 
feet  foremost,  and  stick  into  the  earth  of  some 
little  garden,  just  where  a  sweet-pea  is  coming 
up,  there  to  stand  firmly,  while  the  sweet-pea 
twines  around  it  and  covers  it  with  its  blos- 
soms. There  is  to  be  some  more  ending  to  it, 
I  believe,  or  at  any  rate  something  is  to  be 
done  to  prevent  the  sweet-pea  from  going  to 
seed,  and  the  Rocket-stick  from  being  pulled 
up.  I  am  not  sure,  too,  but  I  shall  have  some 
little  creature  crawl  up  into  the  empty  powder- 
horn  and  make  a  comfortable  home  there.  At 
all  events,  our  fierce,  fiery  Rocket,  that  blazes 
off  into  the  sky,  is  to  have  a  quiet  peaceful  life 
in  the  sunshine  afterward.  Very  likely,  while 
I  am  writing  this  story  I  shall  have  other 
thoughts  in  my  mind,  and  perhaps  think  of 
that  cannon  in  the  picture  which  has  become  a 
nest  of  birds ;  of  the  field  of  wheat  that  waves 
over  the  battle-field ;  of  the  men  and  women 
who  are  boys  and  girls  now. 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT. 

By  Firelight  and  Starlight. 

THE  windows  of  heaven  had  been  opened 
where  I  took  my  seat  a  few  summers  ago,  and 
on  that  window-seat  I  have  sat  many  a  time 
since  —  in  recollection.  I  had  been  walking 
over  and  around  the  White  Mountains  of  New 
Hampshire,  with  Grasshopper  and  Little  Mus- 
cle. It  had  been  raining  from  the  beginning, 
and  we  had  scarcely  seen  a  mountain,  but  had 
trudged  on,  knapsack  on  back,  drenched 
through  much  of  the  time,  and  drying  our- 
selves the  rest.  At  last  we  came  to  one  por- 
tion of  our  walk  which  lay  through  a  forest. 
It  led  from  Waterville  to  the  Saco  River,  near 
Abel  Crawford's  grave,  but  was  only  a  bridle- 
path which  had  been  roughly  cut  a  few  years 
before,  and  so  out  of  use  that  it  could  scarcely 
be  distinguished,  after  a  few  miles,  from 
the  sable-lines,  as  they  are  called,  —  blazes 
made  by  trappers  of  sable.  No  one  at  the 
red  farm-house  could  tell  us  exactly  about 
the  path,  what  its  course  was  after  reaching 
Sawyer's  River,  eleven  miles  or  so  distant,  01 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT.  29 

how  many  miles  iu  length  it  was.  Some  said 
fourteen  miles  in  all,  some  said  sixteen,  one 
shook  his  head  and  said  nineteen,  but  no  one 
really  knew.  All  the  advice  we  could  get  was 
a  warning  from  two  young  artists  who  had 
tried  the  walk  a  few  days  hefore,  and  getting 
bewildered  on  sable-lines,  had,  as  they  averred, 
walked  sixty  miles ;  and  after  spending  the 
night  in  the  woods,  had  been  forced  to  strag- 
gle back. 

Then  there  were  the  inhabitants  of  the 
woods  —  Bears  ?  —  a  few,  but  they  were  timid. 
Cats  were  the  most  unpleasant,  —  bob-cats,  as 
they  were  disrespectfully  called,  from  their  bob- 
tails. Mr.  H.,  an  enthusiastic  fisherman,  told 
us  that  he  gave  them  a  wide  berth  when  he 
met  them  in  the  woods ;  but  one  day,  having 
nothing  but  his  fishing-rod  in  hand,  he  met  a 
bob-cat  in  the  path,  and  feeling  very  stubborn, 
he  sat  down,  remembering  the  taming  power 
of  the  human  eye,  and  looked  the  bob-cat  un- 
flinchingly in  the  face.  The  bob-cat  stopped, 
• — there  were  a  few  yards  between  them, — 
and  having  perhaps  a  similar  theory,  sat  down 
on  his  haunches,  and  looked  steadily  at  Mr.  H. 
It  was  a  long  fifteen  minutes ;  but  the  man 
won,  and  the  brute  slunk  off. 

We   started   at   noon   under   bright    skies, 


30  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

though  it  had  been  raining  in  the  morning, 
and  went  singing  and  shouting  on  our  way. 
We  dared  the  bob-cat  to  come  out,  we  jeered 
at  him,  we  taunted  him  with  cowardice ;  and 
once,  when  we  were  resting,  Grasshopper  and 
I  acted  the  scene,  Grasshopper  coming  up  to 
me  on  all-fours,  and  fixing  a  bob-cat  gaze  upon 
me  as  I  stared  at  him,  till  he  was  ready  to  turn 
on  his  heel.  So  we  walked  along  the  hilly 
path,  full  of  sport,  when  lo !  just  as  I  was  call- 
ing out  in  my  loudest  voice,  "  Robert !  Robert  I 
toi  que  faime,"  a  veritable  bob-cat  crossed  the 
path.  We  all  turned  to  each  other  and  whis- 
pered emphatically,  —  "  Bob-cat !  "  We  list- 
ened —  we  heard  the  fellow  go  crunching 
through  the  forest  and  meaouing  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  we  sat  on  a  log,  but  in  vain ;  six  eyes, 
he  reasoned,  were  too  much  for  his  two. 

But  it  began  to  lower,  then  it  rained,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  our  shoulders  were  wet  through. 
We  trudged  on.  We  reached  Sawyer's  River 
at  six  o'clock,  calculating  that  we  had  made 
thirteen  miles.  We  held  a  council ;  should  we 
camp  here  in  the  hut  ?  It  could  not  be  more 
than  five  miles  further,  two  hours  of  daylight 
were  left,  and  we  surely  could  get  through ;  so 
off  we  started  again,  watching  the  path  care- 
fully, for  it  was  from  this  point  that  it  was 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT.  31 

doubtful.  Sawyer's  River  kept  crossing  the 
path.  We  walked  cautiously  on.  It  came  to 
be  eight  o'clock  and  we  always  seemed  to  be 
just  on  the  point  of  seeing1  clear  land  ahead. 
We  came  now  to  a  brook  entering  the  river 
on  our  left.  The  path  was  all  a  maze,  and  rea- 
soning sagely  that  the  brook  was  going  straight 
to  Saco  River,  which  ran  by  the  road  we  were 
making  for,  we  stepped  into  it  and  went  knee- 
deep  floundering  down  the  current.  We  were 
now  wet  from  top  to  toe,  though  it  had  stopped 
raining.  A  few  rods  of  this  short  cut  were 
enough,  and  we  clambered  on  to  the  bank 
again,  and  with  remarkable  good  fortune  stum- 
bled upon  the  path  once  more. 

Then  it  grew  darker  ;  we  heard  the  roaring 
of  water,  and  always  thought  we  were  coming 
to  the  Saco,  and  always  found  it  to  be  Sawyer's. 
We  stumbled  along,  Grasshopper  in  front, 
Little  Muscle  in  the  middle,  and  I  behind. 
Then  it  was  that  enormous  trees  were  found 
fallen  across  the  path.  Little  sharp  twigs 
stuck  out  from  them.  It  must  have  heen  on 
these  that  I  caught  in  clambering  over,  my 
knapsack  banging  against  my  sides,  for  one 
strap  was  broken,  and  tore  those  little  patches, 
when  Little  Muscle  laughed  inside,  and  I 
*ighed  out.  We  stumbled  on  in  the  miry  dark- 


32  IN  THE  WINDG  W-SEAT 

ness.  We  halted  for  Grasshopper  to  feel  the 
path  ahead  with  his  feet,  when  he  would  hollo 
to  us,  and  we  would  go  to  his  voice,  letting 
him  start  off  again  on  fresh  discovery.  Fi- 
nally, not  even  patient  hunting  seemed  of  any 
avail ;  we  appeared  to  be  in  the  path,  and  yet 
at  its  end.  We  leaned  against  a  fallen  tree 
and  took  counsel  together.  Should  we  follow 
our  compass  and  push  through  the  woods  ?  It 
could  not  be  more  than  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  more,  surely.  We  were  hungry,  tired, 
and  wet.  It  was  after  ten  o'clock,  so  we  agreed 
to  camp  out  on  the  spot. 

The  Grasshopper  had  some  matches,  I  had 
some  birch-bark,  Little  Muscle  had  some  news- 
paper, and  one  of  us  had  a  small  pocket-knife. 
We  dropped  the  knife  at  once  and  could  not 
find  it  again ;  but  there  were  some  rotten 
trunks  of  trees  standing  about,  wet  and  spongy, 
und  we  broke  these  down,  and,  after  patient 
labor,  made  a  fire.  Then  we  made  a  corduroy 
bed  of  old  trunks,  and  proppfd  up  some  logs 
for  seats,  and  made  some  clothes-poles  on 
which  we  hung  our  raiment,  while  we  roasted 
ourselves  like  savages.  We  spent  the  rest  of 
the  night  drying  each  garment  by  turns.  The 
Grasshopper  and  Little  Muscle  lay  down  on 
the  corduroy.  I  slept  beautifully  on  a  chip  for 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT.  33 

a  minute  and  a  half,  when  the  heat  from  the 
fire  stole  through  me. 

At  four  in  the  morn  ing  we  were  nearly  ready 
to  start.  Everything  was  dry,  especially  our 
mouths,  which  could  find  no  water.  I  was 
lying  down,  for  I  felt  like  it.  I  heard  a  sound 
above  me. 

"  Little  Muscle,"  said  I,  "  what  is  that  pat- 
tering?" 

"  Rain,"  said  Little  Muscle,  and  he  took  a 
pocket-handkerchief  and  spread  it  gently  over 
me.  The  contents  of  our  knapsacks  were 
spread  about  on  the  ground.  In  three  min- 
utes we  were  wet  through,  and  so  were  all  our 
things.  We  walked  five  miles  by  the  path, 
and  then  came  to  the  road.  It  rained  the  rest 
of  the  day.  We  went  to  bed  at  Old  Craw- 
ford's, and  pushed  our  clothes  outside  the 
door;  and  in  the  afternoon  I  read  the  news- 
paper aloud,  while  Grasshopper  mended  my 
trousers  beautifully,  and  Little  Muscle  went  to 
sleep. 


AT   CHRISTMAS  TIME. 

Midnight, 

THROUGH  the  frosty  pane,  I  make  out  the 
shining  stars,  and  in  the  dead  of  night,  when 
others  are  sleeping,  I  keep  watch.  When  one 
is  out-of-doors  in  the  middle  of  the  night  he 
is  surprised  to  see  how  differently  everything 
looks,  especially  in  moonlight.  The  build- 
ings so  high  and  strange,  the  trees  muttering 
to  each  other,  and  bushes  looking  as  if  they 
were  stealing  out  of  the  meadow  to  the  road. 
And  then  at  night,  one  looks  up  into  the  sky. 
There  are  no  people,  perhaps,  about,  to  catch 
his  eye,  and  his  business  does  not  keep  him 
thinking  with  his  eyes  down,  so  he  looks  up  and 
sees  the  countless  stars.  If  he  is  on  shipboard, 
he  watches  the  mast  drawing  queer  diagrams 
on  the  heaven,  and  tries  to  count  the  stars  in 
some  one  patch.  And  here  and  there,  over  the 
surface  of  the  globe,  are  dotted  little  towers, 
in  which  men  sit  and  watch  steadily  with  great 
telescopes,  to  see  what  more  they  can  find  out 
about  those  wonderful  heavenly  bodies.  We 
seem  at  such  times  to  be  standing  tiptoe  or 


AT  CHRISTMAS  TIME.  & 

the  earth,  on  its  extreme  outside,  and  peering 
Up  into  that  strange  sky,  which  we  can  only 
ascend  into  with  our  bodies  such  a  miserable 
little  space. 

Then  there  are  some  whose  work  requires 
them  to  be  out-of-doors  all  night.  The  watch- 
men in  our  cities  walk  up  and  down,  and  see 
some  sights  that  are  not  at  all  heavenly.  The 
engine-driver  of  the  night  train  peers  out  be- 
yond his  engine  as  it  dashes  through  the  dark- 
ness. He  cannot  look  up  into  the  sky  much, 
he  must  keep  on  the  lookout  for  signals  ahead. 
How  many  ships  are  sailing  over  the  ocean  all 
night  long,  with  a  few  men  muffled  up,  pacing 
the  deck,  or  sitting  together  in  chat,  or  mind- 
ing the  wheel. 

In  countries  where  it  is  warm  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  out-door  life  in  the  night,  and 
the  flocks  upon  the  hill-side  are  watched  by 
the  shepherds.  They  can  look  at  the  stars, 
and  watch  the  meteors  that  flash  across  the 
sky.  A  stranger  sight  they  saw  once  on  a  hill- 
side in  Judea,  when,  as  they  kept  watch  of 
their  sheep,  a  great  light  shone  around,  and 
the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  upon  them  with 
that  wonderful  annunciation,  at  the  words  of 
which  the  heavens  were  opened,  and  a  multi- 
tude —  no  man  could  number  them  —  praised 


56  IN  THE  WINDOW-SEAT. 

God  in  the  hearing  of  these  simple  shepherds. 
Perhaps,  too,  at  that  very  moment  the  Wise 
Men  of  the  East  were  journeying  toward  the 
place. 

The  shepherds  kept  their  flocks  by  night, 
and  thirty  years  afterward,  other  shepherds 
watching,  might  have  seen  Him,  the  True 
Shepherd,  going  at  midnight  on  the  quiet  hill. 
Did  they  know  that  He  whom  they  saw  mov- 
ing along  in  the  distance,  His  outline  growing 
fainter,  was  going  out  into  the  cold  and  dark- 
ness to  pray  to  the  Father  ? 

'•'  Cold  mountains,  and  the  midnight  air, 
"Witnessed  the  fervor  of  his  prayer ; " 

and  on  the  lonely  mountain  the  Shepherd  was 
watching  his  sheep. 


AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES. 

In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Bang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes, 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

LONGFELLOW. 

AT  whatever  hour  of  day  or  night  one 
were  to  enter  Bruges,  he  would  be  welcomed 
by  the  ringing  of  bells.  Long  before  he 
reached  the  city,  —  unless  now  he  were  com- 
ing, as  probably  he  would  come,  by  the  noisy 
.•ailway,  —  he  would  hear  the  pleasant  tunes 
sounding;  and  if  lying  in  his  room  at  the 
Hotel  de  Flandres  he  were  to  wake  in  the  night, 
he  would  not  have  to  listen  long  before  he 
would  hear  the  bells  again  at  their  work,  ring- 
ing out  the  bright  music.  High  up  in  the 
Belfry  of  Bruges,  which  rises  so  lofty  above 


40  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

Les  Holies  in  the  market-place  that  the  great 
building-  looks  like  a  low-roofed  house,  the  bells 
are  swung,  and  there,  every  fifteen  minutes, 
day  and  night,  they  play  their  tunes.  The 
music  sounds  so  sweetly  up  in  the  pure  air, 
that  it  is  as  a  voice  let  down  from  heaven.  No 
one  can  see  the  bells,  except  he  climb  up  the 
tower  staircase  or  mount  the  opposite  houses ; 
only  the  swallows  know  them  well,  flying  in 
and  out,  for  their  nests  are  there.  No  one  is 
ringing  the  bells,  yet  still  they  sound,  making 
their  glad  noise  above  the  drowsy  town  of 
Bruges. 

Drowsy  enough  it  is,  looking  as  if  here 
might  be  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty, 
and  as  if  the  bell  was  ringing  day  and  night 
to  wake  her.  Canals  crossed  by  bridges  — 
Bruges  is  Bridge  in  Flemish  —  are  in  every 
direction.  Back  of  the  Town  Hall  creeps  the 
sluggish  Dyver  Canal,  and  it  looks  no  lazier 
than  the  few  people  who  walk  along  the  shaded 
mall  by  its  side.  In  the  market-place  sit  a 
few  old  women  knitting,  and  selling  to  a  few 
other  old  women  clattering  about  in  wooden 
shoes ;  and  yet,  as  one  goes  idling  through  the 
city,  he  sees  great  houses  and  warehouses,  with 
quaint  scroll-work  on  the  face,  and  with  high 
stepped  roofs.  Great  churches  and  hospitals. 


TEE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES.      41 

with  glorious  paintings,  stand  massively  by 
themselves,  and  at  the  street  corners,  in  niches 
of  the  houses,  stand  images  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  and  child  Jesus.  There  is  a  street 
called  "  The  Street  of  the  Lace-makers."  Jog 
down  the  street  some  summer  afternoon  in  a 
rattling1  vigilante  with  a  Flemish  driver :  you 
see  the  quaint  houses  that  have  settled  them- 
selves comfortably  as  if  for  a  long  nap,  and  at 
each  door-step  a  knot  of  women  and  children, 
gossiping  together  over  their  lace-making, 
while  the  youngest  brats  play  soberly  about  in 
the  gutter.  Each  has  a  reel  and  cushion,  and 
the  little  pins  move  briskly,  while  the  tongues 
of  the  dames  keep  pace.  Suddenly  a  sharp 
tinkling  bell  is  heard,  rung  with  a  quick,  de- 
cided air.  At  once  women  and  children  drop 
upon  their  knees  ;  the  vigilante  stops,  the 
driver  uncovers  his  head,  and  gets  down  to 
kneel  upon  the  ground,  all  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  and  pray  until  the  little  procession 
of  priests  with  the  Host,  which  was  coming 
up  the  street,  has  passed  by  and  gone  beyond. 
But  the  Belfry  chimes  easily  draw  us  back 
through  the  silent  streets  and  past  the  neg- 
lected houses  to  the  grand  square  and  to  the 
Belfry  itself.  There  is  room  enough  here  to 
see  it,  but  for  a  good  look  the  houses  opposite 


12  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

from  which  our  picture  was  taken  by  a  photog- 
rapher, are  best.  Look  now  at  this  Belfry 
tower.  It  is  only  ten  feet  less  than  three  hun- 
dred feet  in  height.  Take  away  the  building's 
on  either  side,  or  rather  the  two  wings  of  the 
tower,  for  such  they  are,  and  you  have  the 
tower  as  it  stood  in  1364;  yet  not  exactly, 
for  you  must  now  add  a  lofty  spire  which 
ascended  from  the  summit,  but  was  finally 
burnt  in  1741.  In  place  of  it  is  the  low  para- 
pet which  may  be  seen  running  around  the 
top.  You  can  see,  through  the  open  windows 
above,  a  little  of  the  bells ;  below  is  the  great 
clock,  and  below  that  a  narrow  slit  of  a  win- 
dow ;  this  brings  us  to  the  base  of  the  highest 
stage ;  this  upper  section  of  the  tower  rests  on 
a  broader  one,  and  from  the  four  corners  of 
this  next  section  rise  turrets,  connected  with 
the  tower  above  by  what  are  called  flying  but- 
tresses, or  stone  braces,  which  span  the  dis- 
tance between  the  turrets  and  the  tower.  A 
second  stage  brings  us  to  the  top  of  the  first 
and  original  tower,  with  its  four  shorter  pin- 
nacles, and  so  we  descend  to  where  it  meets 
the  roof  of  Les  Holies  ;  these  two  wings  are 
Used,  one  as  a  cloth  market,  the  other  for  a 
meat  market.  Above  the  entrance  archway 
is  a  balcony  from  which  proclamation  used  to 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES.      43 

be  made,  and  above  that  is  a  niche  containing 
a  statue  of  the  Virgin  Mary ;  for,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  people  of  Belgium  are  and  always 
have  been  Roman  Catholics. 

A  long,  dark  staircase  leads,  step  by  step, 
within  the  tower  to  its  top.  At  last  a  narrow 
ladder  leads  into  the  chamber  where  the  bells 
are  hung.  There  is  the  great  bell  of  all,  and 
there,  besides,  are  forty-seven  other  bells  of 
different  weight,  ranging  from  twelve  to  nearly 
twelve  thousand  pounds,  and  it  is  on  these  that 
the  chimes  are  rung.  They  have  the  sweetest 
tone  of  all  the  bells  in  Belgium.  In  our  coun- 
try a  chime  is  a  rare  thing ;  and  when  Mr. 
Ayliffe  rings  the  chimes  at  Trinity  Church  in 
New  York  on  public  days,  the  programme  is 
published  in  the  newspapers,  and  at  the  hour 
people  stand  about  the  head  of  Wall  Street  to 
hear  with  all  their  might,  while,  as  far  as  the 
bells  can  he  heard,  people  are  listening  as  to 
something  quite  unusual.  It  is  different  in  Bel- 
gium, and  indeed  in  other  European  countries, 
though  there  they  are  most  common.  I  once 
strayed  into  a  little  German  church  far  back 
in  Texas,  and  there  saw  the  school -master 
ringing  chimes  upon  two  poor  little  bells  hung 
above,  under  the  roof.  What  a  faint  reminder 
it  must  have  heen  to  the  homesick  exiles ! 


U  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

It  would  not  be  possible  for  any  one  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower  to  ring  the  chimes  at 
Bruges  by  pulling  now  upon  one  rope,  now 
upon  another,  as  he  wished  to  ring  a  particular 
bell.  To  make  it  possible  for  the  performer, 
there  is  a  very  ingenious  contrivance  in  the 
chamber  below  that  containing  the  bells,  by 
which  the  musician  sits  at  a  great  key-board, 
like  that  of  a  piano,  the  keys  of  which  connect 
with  the  hammers  that  strike  the  bells.  He 
strikes  the  keys,  not  with  his  fingers  but  with 
his  fists,  which  are  guarded  by  leathern  cover- 
ings ;  and  though  great  force  is  required,  — 
sometimes  being  equal  to  two  pounds'  weight 
on  each  key,  —  musicians  have  acquired  mar- 
velous skill  in  playing  on  these  colossal  instru- 
ments ;  they  can  indeed  play  music  in  three 
parts,  —  the  bass  being  played  on  pedals,  and 
the  first  and  second  trebles  with  the  hands. 

But  the  chimes  are  sounded  every  fifteen 
minutes,  and  it  is  plain  that  no  musician  could 
be  so  constantly  at  work.  In  fact  it  is  only 
occasionally,  upon  Sundays  chiefly,  that  any 
jne  plays  upon  the  bells,  for  generally  the  bells 
play  themselves.  There  is  a  great  cylinder  in 
the  chamber,  from  the  circumference  of  which 
project  pegs  placed  at  proper  intervals,  accord- 
ing to  the  order  in  which  each  bell  is  to  be 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES.      45 

struck.  This  is  made  to  revolve  by  clock-work, 
and  the  pegs  are  thus  brought  into  contact 
with  levers  operating  upon  the  bell-hammers. 
The  whole  is  a  sort  of  gigantic  musical-box, 
only  instead  of  the  steel  comb  which  one  there 
sees  producing  the  music  by  vibrating  after 
contact  with  the  pegs,  the  music  here  is  pro- 
duced by  a  lever  connected  with  the  comb,  as 
it  were.  And  just  as  the  airs  in  the  musical- 
box  can  be  changed,  so  those  in  the  Belfry  can 
be  and  are  changed,  —  once  a  year,  I  think, — 
by  altering  the  relation  between  the  pegs  and 
the  hammers. 

Look  out  now  through  the  great  open  case- 
ment, and  what  a  wonderful  view  stretches  in 
every  direction.  The  great  plain  is  cultivated 
like  a  garden,  and  at  this  height  the  canals 
look  like  ditches  for  draining  the  land.  There 
is  no  country  in  Europe  so  densely  populated 
as  Belgium,  and  every  square  inch  of  soil 
seems  to  be  spaded  and  hoed  and  raked  for 
cultivation.  The  line  of  sea  can  be  traced  on 
he  north  and  northeast.  South  thirty  miles, 
lies  the  town  of  Courtray ;  southeast  is  Ghent, 
twenty-seven  miles  away,  and  other  smaller 
towns  dot  the  great  field.  Below  lies  the  towp 
of  Bruges ;  and  now  we  are  so  far  away  from 
Duman  voices  and  to-day's  news,  that,  stand' 


46  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

ing  beside  these  bells,  whose  tongues  hare 
spoken  for  hundreds  of  years,  and  looking  off 
to  the  sea  and  to  the  towers  of  Ghent,  it  ig 
not  hard  to  put  our  ear  close  to  the  Great  Bell, 
and  listen  to  the  sounds  that  have  been  struck 
from  it  ever  since  it  was  first  raised  to  its 
place.  If  we  could  look  back  over  history  as 
well  as  across  over  this  plain,  what  should  we 
see  of  deeds  in  which  this  Bell  has  taken  a 
part !  When  was  it  rung  ?  and  how  came  this 
Belfry  to  be  standing  here  ?  These  great 
towers  are  not  found  thus  in  England,  nor  in 
France,  nor  much  in  Europe  anywhere  except 
here  in  Belgium,  and  in  parts  of  Italy,  in  Lom- 
bardy  that  is,  and  in  Venice.  They  are  in  fact 
witnesses  in  history. 

Where  now  the  Tower  of  Bruges  stands  was 
once  a  wooden  belfry ;  but  before  that  was  built 
there  was  the  busy  town,  with  its  artisans  and 
sailors.  The  towns  near  by,  like  Bruges,  were 
near  the  sea,  and  connected  inland  by  numer- 
ous streams ;  hence  they  could  raise  flax  upon 
the  broad  plains,  weave  it  into  cloth  in  their 
towns,  and  send  it  by  ships  to  all  parts  of  the 
world.  Year  by  year  they  grew  richer  and 
more  important ;  but  those  were  times  when 
there  was  littlo  law  quite  so  good  as  a  strong 
fcrm  and  sharp  weapon,  and  those  who  had  the 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES.       47 

power  kept  it  for  their  own  pleasure.  In  the 
days  of  feudalism,  the  king  or  emperor  claimed 
to  own  all  beneath  him,  —  people,  and  their 
lands,  and  money ;  he  exacted  soldiers  to  serve 
in  his  army,  and  money  to  meet  his  expenses  ; 
but  there  were  great  numbers  of  powerful  and 
wealthy  men  who  stood  between  the  lowest 
and  himself:  thus,  he  did  not  command  the 
humblest  personally,  but  as  a  general  gives  his 
orders  to  be  obeyed  by  a  colonel,  who  in  turn 
orders  the  captain,  who  passes  the  order  down 
until  it  reaches  the  private  soldier ;  so  the  em- 
peror or  king  had  about  him  barons  and  earls, 
almost  as  powerful  as  himself;  these  offered 
their  services  to  him  with  their  men,  and  they 
obtained  their  men  from  the  neighborhood  of 
their  estates  and  castles.  It  was  a  time  of 
war  and  pillage  :  even  in  peace  there  were 
bands  of  robbers  continually  prowling  about. 
Hence,  poor  people  sold  themselves  in  part  to 
those  above  them,  and  in  return  got  a  kind  of 
protection  from  them.  The  town  of  Bruges, 
like  others  about  it,  was  called  the  possession 
of  the  Earl  of  Flanders,  and  he  called  himself 
a  subject  of  the  King  of  France.  But  most  of 
the  townsmen  did  not  wish  to  go  to  war  under 
the  banner  of  the  Earl ;  they  preferred  the  life 
of  artisans  and  sailors,  and  accordingly  bought 


48  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

from  the  Earl  the  privilege  of  living  peaceably 
at  home.  The  various  towns  had  a  common 
interest,  and  therefore  they  were  leagued  to- 
gether for  self-defense  against  marauders.  By 
degrees  they  became  more  and  more  capable 
of  taking  care  of  themselves ;  they  found  that 
they  could  shoot  the  bow  as  well  under  their 
own  leaders  as  if  they  were  led  by  a  baron. 
They  became,  too,  more  engrossed  in  making 
money,  and  grew  richer  and  richer.  The 
Earls  of  Flanders  wanted  money,  for  war- 
making  was  expensive,  and  they  were  engaged 
in  crusading,  which  took  a  deal  of  money  that 
never  came  back.  So  they  went  to  the  rich 
burghers,  as  the  citizens  of  the  towns  were 
called,  for  money,  and  in  exchange  were  ready 
to  give  them  certain  privileges,  which  before 
were  supposed  to  belong  to  lords  only,  —  as,  for 
instance,  the  right  to  elect  their  own  magis- 
trates, and  to  manage  their  own  local  affairs. 
More  and  more  these  great  towns  came  to  be 
self-dependent.  They  acknowledged  the  su- 
premacy of  the  earls,  but  in  reality  they  ruled 
themselves.  They  fortified  their  cities,  and 
built  these  belfries  for  watch-towers ;  they 
nung  a  bell  in  them  to  call  the  citizens  to 
gether  in  case  of  danger,  and  by  various  sig 
nals  to  give  warning  or  to  tell  news. 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES.    49 
"  And  hear  ye  not  the  bells  ?  they're  ringing  backward," 

cries  the  Earl  of  Flanders,  iii  Henry  Taylor's 
"  Philip  Van  Artevelde." 

"  'Tis  an  alarm  !  " 

answers  the  Lord  of  Occo. 

They  built  also  halls,  Hotels  de  Ville  they  are 
called,  in  which  the  citizens  met ;  and  to  have 
a  bell  and  public  hall  were  among  the  first 
privileges  which  a  town  demanded  in  any  bar- 
gain with  its  lord.  Thus  it  was  that  the  belfry 
was  at  once  a  servant  of  the  town,  and  a  con- 
stant reminder  of  the  power  which  they  were 
holding.  A  citizen  might  well  feel  proud  as 
he  passed  by  the  belfry,  for  it  told  him  that 
he  was  not  altogether  the  property  of  some 
haughty  lord,  but  that  he  could  with  his  fel- 
lows treat  with  that  lord  almost  as  an  equal. 
As  the  towns  grew  stronger,  they  grew  more 
self-reliant,  and  more  proud,  too,  of  the  com- 
monwealths which  they  had  built  up.  A  fire, 
perhaps,  destroyed  their  watch-tower,  or  they 
tore  it  down,  and  then  in  place  they  built  brick 
ones,  adding  another  stage  as  they  grew  richer 
and  freer;  they  were  fighting  now  for  their 
rights  as  well  as  paying  for  them,  and  their 
towns  became  strongly  fortified  cities.  Their 
halls  where  they  met  could  not  'oe  too  magnifi- 
cent for  their  wealth,  nor  too  grand  to  show 


50  AT  THE  STUDY-TABLE. 

their  pride  :  they  were  the  palaces  of  the 
people,  for  the  people  were  now  beginning-  to 
feel  that  they  were  the  rulers.  When  Philip 
the  Fair,  King  of  France,  visited  Bruges  in 
1302,  his  wife,  Queen  Jeanne  of  Navarre,  cried 
with  vexation,  when  she  saw  the  ladies  of 
Bruges,  —  "I  thought  I  was  the  only  queen 
here,  and  yet  here  are  more  than  five  hundred 
queens ; "  so  splendidly  did  they  carry  them- 
selves with  their  wealth  and  their  pride. 

These  gigantic  towers  were  the  brawny  arms 
which  Flanders  held  up,  as  if  saying,  "  See 
how  mighty  we  are,  and  what  our  own  hands 
have  wrought ! "  The  bell  was  the  voice  of 
the  tower,  and  it  spoke  in  all  kinds  of  tones. 
In  the  charter  of  an  ancient  town  we  read  : 
"  If  an  outsider  has  a  complaint  against  a 
burgher,  the  Schepens  and  Sellout  (i.  e.  the 
aldermen  and  mayor)  must  arrange  it.  If 
either  party  refuses  submission  to  them,  they 
must  ring  the  town-bell  and  summon  an  as- 
sembly of  all  the  burghers  to  compel  him. 
Any  one  ringing  the  town-bell,  except  by  gen- 
eral consent,  and  any  one  not  appearing  when 
it  tolls,  are  liable  to  a  fine."  So  we  see  that 
the  bell  was  a  very  important  personage  in  the 
town.  Swinging  up  there  in  the  tower,  it  kep# 
»  sort  cf  watch  over  the  liberties  of  the  town 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD   TOWN  OF  BRUGES.    51 

and  the  rights  of  each  citizen  and  outsider 
also.  At  certain  hours,  too,  it  rang  out  to  tell 
workmen  when  to  begin  and  when  to  stop 
work.  For  centuries,  every  morning,  noon, 
and  evening,  it  rang  for  this  ;  and  such  was 
the  rush  of  workmen  at  those  hours  over  the 
bridges  that  cross  the  canals,  that  the  laws 
forbade  the  draws  to  be  raised  then  to  let  boats 
through. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  all  things 
went  on  smoothly,  the  towns  becoming  richer 
and  freer  constantly.  There  was  jealousy  be- 
tween them,  fierce  rivalry  of  trade  and  blood, 
each  town  seeking  to  ruin  its  neighbor  while  it 
enriched  itself.  Bruges  and  Ghent,  especially, 
were  rivals  and  at  last  broke  out  into  war,  as 
we  shall  see.  And  more  than  this,  not  only 
were  the  towns  incorporated,  that  is,  possess- 
ing privileges  of  self-government,  but,  from  a 
very  early  period,  the  various  trades  and  arts 
were  banded  together  into  what  were  called 
guilds,  which  were  formed,  as  the  towns  were, 
for  muitcrtl  protection.  To  have  any  part  in 
the  government,  one  must  be  a  member  of  a 
spiild  ;  and  these  societies  naturally  became 
jealous  of  each  other's  influence  and  power. 
The  Earl  of  Flanders  shrewdly  took  advantage 
of  all  this  weakness.  It  was  his  aim  to  keep 


52  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

control  over  these  rich  towns,  hut  he  knew 
that  if  they  were  of  one  mind  in  the  towns, 
and  the  towns  were  banded  together  against 
him,  he  would  stand  a  poor  chance  of  getting 
his  money.  So  it  was  his  policy  to  set  one 
town  against  another,  and  one  guild  in  the 
same  town  against  another  in  the  same  town. 
He  made  friends  of  different  parties,  and 
hence  in  war  he  was  sure  of  some  support. 
The  history  of  these  towns  is  an  interesting 
one,  but  it  grows  sad  as  we  see  how  they  lost 
their  liberty  by  quarreling  among  themselves. 
It  would  be  sadder,  if  we  did  not  believe,  as 
we  do,  that  the  towns,  like  those  of  Lombardy 
and  Venice,  were  getting  gains  for  liberty  all 
over  the  world,  and  when  they  were  crushed, 
liberty  did  not  go  down,  but  showed  itself 
stronger  in  Holland,  then  broadened  in  Eng- 
land, and,  passing  to  America,  established 
itself  so  firmly  that  every  shock  felt  here 
makes  sorrowful  the  friends  of  liberty  in 
Europe. 

We  have  stood  so  long  looking  out  of  the 
Belfry  window  that  there  is  not  time  to  show 
what  we  have  seen,  but  at  other  times  we  may 
hear  what  the  Belfry  of  Bruges  witnessed  in 
those  early  days.  It  was  something  to  have 
seen  the  men  of  Bruges  returning  from  th« 


THE  SLEEPY  OLD  TOWN  OF  BRUGES.    53 

Battle  of  the  Golden  Spurs ;  and  for  the  Bel- 
fry's sake  let  us  hope  that  it  did  not  see  its 
great  Gilt  Dragon,  as  large  as  a  bull,  taken 
down  by  the  men  of  Ghent  eighty  years  after- 
ward, —  though  to  this  day  the  Dragon  can  be 
seen  twinkling  in  the  distance  upon  the  Belfry 
of  Ghent.  The  town  of  Bruges  is  sleepy  in- 
deed, but  it  has  some  grand  dreams.  We  walk 
again  through  its  drowsy  streets,  but  if  we 
only  read  history  well,  and  keep  our  eyes  open, 
we  may  see  wonderful  sights  and  great  goings 
on  among  the  crowds  of  citizens.  Let  us 
watch  for  the  return  of  the  men  of  Bruges 
from  the  Battle  of  the  Golden  Spurs. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SPURS. 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
Edward  I.  was  King  of  England,  Philip  IV., 
called  Philip  the  Handsome,  was  King  of 
France,  and  Bruges  was  the  first  commercial 
city  of  Europe.  With  Bruges  the  other  great 
towns  of  Flanders  had  a  like  prosperity,  and 
this  little  country  with  its  great  wealth  was 
looked  at  wistfully  by  the  hungry  Philip  of 
France.  The  real  rulers  of  the  country  were 
the  rich  burghers  who  had  quietly  been  buying 
the  right  to  govern  themselves  of  the  Counts 
of  Flanders.  They  still  professed  allegiance 
to  the  counts,  and  the  counts  leaned  toward 
France ;  but  the  belfries  and  Hotels  de  Ville, 
which  now  began  to  stand  firmly  and  proudly 
in  the  cities,  were  witnesses  that  the  citizens 
:  eld  the  real  power  and  meant  to  keep  it. 

This  little  country,  close  to  France  and  Eng- 
land, was  connected  with  the  former  by  its 
nominal  rulers,  the  counts,  and  with  the  latter 
by  its  real  rulers,  the  burghers  :  for  it  was  the 
Sfreat  market  for  the  wool  of  England,  and  be« 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SPURS.    55 

ing-,  too,  the  great  depot  for  the  Mediterranean 
trade  in  the  north,  it  was  the  Exchange  of  the 
great  mercantile  countries.  So,  whenever 
there  was  a  rurahle  of  war  in  Europe,  Flan- 
ders looked  two  ways  at  once.  Its  Counts 
sided  with  France,  if  she  was  strong,  or  re- 
belled against  her,  if  she  was  weak,  while  the 
wary  Burghers  looked  more  carefully  to  Eng- 
land. 

Thus  it  happened,  that  at  the  beginning  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  when  a  great  change 
was  taking  place  in  the  life  of  Europe,  Flan- 
ders was  drawn  into  the  struggle,  and  on  her 
soil  was  fought  a  battle  which  had  much  to  do 
with  hastening  the  new  order  of  things. 

Philip  had  made  a  quarrel  with  Guy  cle 
Dampierre,  Count  of  Flanders,  and  as  the  rich 
towns  were  discontented  with  Guy  at  the  same 
time,  the  crafty  Philip  professed  to  make  com- 
mon cause  with  them,  and  by  a  trick  got  pos- 
session of  the  Count  and  shut  him  up  in  Paris. 
At  the  same  time  he  sent  an  army  to  protect 
Flanders,  which  meant,  to  protect  Flemish 
riches  from  going  anywhere  except  into  the 
French  king's  pocket.  The  governor  ap- 
pointed by  Philip  was  his  queen's  uncle,  Chat- 
'llon,  who  at  once  began  governing  the  coun- 
try after  the  fashion  of  those  days,  not  for  the 


56  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

benefit  of  the  country  but  of  the  governor. 
He  took  from  the  burghers  the  power  which 
they  had  been  using  of  managing  public  af- 
fairs, and  then  laid  a  heavy  tax  upon  the  work- 
men of  the  cities.  This  was  a  very  different 
state  of  things  from  what  the  towns  of  Flan- 
ders had  been  used  to.  We  have  seen  how  they 
had  been,  from  time  to  time,  getting  wealth 
and  real  power  into  their  own  hands,  and  giv- 
ing to  their  rulers,  the  counts,  only  a  show  of 
power.  Matters  grew  worse  :  it  was  plain  that 
the  French  power  was  using  Flanders  as  ito 
money  sack.  Heavy  taxes,  impositions  of  every 
kind,  the  insolent  presence  of  a  foreign  soldiery, 
quickly  roused  the  people,  who  ha*d  not  become 
sluggish  under  long  oppression,  but  lively  from 
the  habit  of  self-government.  They  began  to 
meet  secretly  and  to  murmur  angrily.  Espe- 
cially the  craftsmen  began  to  move,  the  rich 
burghers  being  more  cautious  by  fear  of  losing 
their  property. 

The  first  outbreak  arose  from  Chatillon  inso- 
lently casting  into  prison  certain  deputies  who 
had  appeared  in  behalf  of  the  trades  to  com- 
plain of  non-payment  for  work  given  them  by 
royal  order.  At  this  the  people  broke  open  the 
prison  and  set  them  free,  a  few  lives  being  lost 
in  the  attack.  The  affair  was  brought  before 


.      THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SPURS.     57 

the  French  government  and  the  answer  came 
back  to  rearrest  the  released  prisoners.  But 
the  people  who  had  set  them  free  were  now 
drawn  into  the  struggle  and  began  organizing 
resistance.  They  were  led  by  one  of  the  men 
who  had  been  imprisoned.  He  was  the  deacon, 
as  the  head  man  was  called,  of  the  guild  of 
weavers.  His  name  was  Peter  King,  a  man 
of  the  common  rank,  about  sixty  years  old,  a 
little,  mean-looking  fellow  with  one  eye ;  but 
he  was  a  man  of  courage,  of  readiness,  and 
shrewdness,  and  a  natural  orator.  He  could  not 
speak  French,  but,  what  was  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, he  could  speak  Flemish,  the  people's 
tongue,  and  in  that  language  he  stirred  them 
and  drew  them  after  him,  in  spite  of  the 
caution  of  the  burghers. 

In  time  of  danger  the  Flemings  had  always 
been  wont  to  ring  their  great  bell,  but  now, 
since  the  French  had  possession  of  that,  they 
improvised  an  alarm-bell.  Their  plans  were 
laid ;  and  on  the  21st  of  March,  1302,  at  the 
moment  agreed  upon,  the  people  seized  on  their 
caldrons  and  rang  the  alarm  on  their  copper 
sides.  All  over  Bruges  sounded  the  caldron ; 
this  was  the  signal  for  the  rising,  and  at  once 
in  every  direction  the  French  were  set  upon 
and  slain.  For  three  days  the  massacre  con- 


58  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

tinued  ;  twelve  hundred  knights  and  two  thou- 
sand foot-soldiers  fell,  and  Chatillon  had  to 
ride  for  his  life. 

Everything-  now  was  at  stake.  These  men 
of  Bruges  had  flown  at  the  French  power. 
Could  the  popular  rising  become  a  national  re- 
sistance ?  They  inarched  at  once  to  Ghent  to 
get  that  city's  alliance;  but  the  wretched 
jealousy  between  the  towns,  and  the  factions 
in  each  city  besides,  made  Ghent  cold,  and  she 
would  not  join  Bruges.  A  few  towns  took  the 
part  of  Bruges,  either  from  choice  or  from 
compulsion,  Ypres,  Nieuport,  Berghes,  Fumes 
and  Gravelines.  At  the  head  of  the  forces  was 
one  of  the  sons  of  the  Count  of  Flanders,  for 
common  wrongs  had  reconciled  the  people  and 
Guy,  and  one  of  his  grandsons. 

Philip  sent  an  army  to  chastise  these  inso- 
lent workmen,  an  army  that  held  the  flower 
of  French  knighthood  and  nobility.  They 
marched  and  met  the  Flemings  before  the 
town  of  Courtrai.  The  battle-field  was  a 
large  plain,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  odds  were 
fearfully  against  the  men  of  Bruges,  for  their 
enemy  was  cavalry,  heavily  clad  in  mail,  and 
almost  irresistible  in  an  onset  upon  infantry ; 
and  the  Flemings  were  on  foot,  —  even  the  few 
knights  that  led  them  dismissed  their  horses 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SPURS.    59 

and  bravely  stood  in  the  ranks  along  with  the 
tradesmen.  They  were  armed  with  pikes  shod 
with  iron  ;  good-day  was  the  name  they  gave 
to  them,  and  a  terrible  welcome  they  proved  to 
the  French  knights.  Each  man  held  his  pike 
fixed  in  the  ground  before  him,  awaiting  the 
attack.  Before  the  battle,  mass,  as  usual,  was 
celebrated ;  that  is,  the  communion  was  par- 
taken of  by  these  men  who  were  expecting 
death ;  but  as  they  could  not  all  take  it  for 
want  of  time,  each  stooped  down  and  raised  to 
his  lips  a  morsel  of  the  turf  he  trod  upon. 
Their  country  was  sacred  to  them. 

The  French,  despising  their  vulgar  enemy, 
would  not  try  the  stratagems  of  war,  although 
the  Constable  of  France,  their  general,  pro- 
posed at  first  to  flank  them.  The  proud 
knights,  thinking  it  almost  disgraceful  to  be 
fighting  at  all  with  these  low  tradesmen,  fol- 
lowed their  general  in  an  impetuous  charge. 
Headlong  they  rode,  the  hindmost  pushing 
close  upon  the  forward  until  they  were  mingled 
in  confused  array.  And  now,  coming  upon  the 
sturdy  ranks  of  the  Flemings,  they  came  also 
\m  what  they  had  not  before  seen,  a  long  canal- 
iitch,  such  as  cross  and  recross  that  country 
in  every  direction.  Into  this  ditch  plunged 
headlong  the  foremost  riders  ;  after  them 


60  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

came  those  behind,  and  the  Flemings  rushing 
forward  with  their  "  good-days  "  fell  upon  the 
entangled  horsemen,  and  plied  their  iron-tipped 
staves  lustily.  Thirty  feet  wide  was  this  ditch, 
and  swept  around  in  the  form  of  a  crescent,  so 
that  it  held  out  open  arms,  as  it  were,  to  re- 
ceive these  knights.  Smothered  in  their  iron 
armor,  a  very  prison-house  to  them  when  off 
their  steeds,  the  mass  of  helpless  knights  were 
at  the  mercy  of  the  weavers  and  smiths.  They 
were  literally  beaten  to  death,  and  the  victori- 
ous Flemings,  gathering  together  their  spoils, 
found  that  such  havoc  had  been  wrought 
amongst  these  nobles  and  knights,  that  seven 
hundred  gilt  spurs,  the  insignia  of  French  no- 
bility, were  their  trophies,  and  were  hung  up 
by  them  in  the  chapel  of  the  counts  in  the 
Cathedral  at  Courtrai.  Eighteen  hundred 
knights  and  twenty-seven  thousand  soldiers, 
it  is  said,  were  lost  by  the  French  in  the  battle, 
the  men  of  Bruges  numbering  twenty  thousand 
fighting  men  in  the  ranks.  Eighty  years  after- 
ward, when  the  French  defeated  the  Flemings 
in  another  battle,  they  were  eager  to  take 
iown  these  trophies  of  their  former  disgrace. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

WALTER  SCOTT,  the  most  celebrated  story- 
teller of  modern  times,  was  born  August  15, 
1771,  at  Edinburgh,  the  capital  of  Scotland. 
When  eighteen  months  old,  he  had  a  sickness 
which  left  him  unable  to  use  his  right  leg,  and 
for  a  few  years  the  chief  care  which  his  parents 
had  for  him,  was  directed  toward  preserving 
his  health  and  restoring  the  withered  limb. 
Accordingly,  he  spent  his  childhood,  not  in  the 
city,  but  at  his  grandfather's  farm,  Sandy 
Knowe,  not  very  far  from  the  English  boun- 
dary, and  in  the  very  heart  of  the  country 
which  he  has  made  so  famous  by  song  and  by 
story.  He  was  a  hearty,  active  child,  and 
growing  impatient  of  his  forced  quiet,  he  be- 
gan to  try  the  withered  leg,  to  stand  upon  it, 
then  to  walk,  and  finally,  to  run ;  and  so,  al- 
though he  was  lame  all  his  days,  and  carried  a 
stout  stick  whenever  he  went  out,  yet  he  went 
tvhere  he  wanted  to ;  and  just  because  there 
tvas  a  difficulty  to  overcome,  he  cared  more, 
m  his  school-days,  to  outstrip  his  fellows  in 


62  AT  THE  STUDY  1  ABLL. 

agility,  than  to  lead  them  in  the  class,  where 
he  had  uo  such  disadvantage  to  contend  with. 
His  school-days  were  passed,  partly  at  Sandy 
Knowe,  partly  in  Edinburgh ;  but  his  com- 
panions at  first  were  chiefly  older  people  on  his 
grandfather's  farm,  and  his  lameness  made  him 
a  favorite,  and  secured  him  little  indulgences 
which,  perhaps,  he  would  have  missed,  if  he 
had  been  entirely  strong.  The  Scottish  people 
love  to  tell  stories,  and  down  to  the  time  of 
Walter's  grandmother,  the  wild  mountain  coun- 
try, with  its  ravines  and  passes,  had  been  the 
scene  of  perpetual  conflict  between  neighbor- 
ing people ;  besides,  in  that  rocky,  stormy 
country,  men  and  women  had  grown  sturdy 
and  self-willed,  hard  to  persuade,  and  ready  to 
cling  till  death  to  what  they  believed  right,  or 
loved  ;  and  the  tumultuous  life  of  the  country 
had  made  people  who  felt  alike,  to  hold  to- 
gether, and  to  suffer  for  one  another,  if  need 
be.  So  there  was  an  endless  store  of  adventure 
and  romance,  deeds  of  daring,  and  acts  of  gen- 
erous love,  which  every  hearty  Scotsman  or 
Scotswoman  could  draw  from,  for  the  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  of  children.  One  could 
not  take  his  stand  anywhere  in  field  or  on  hill- 
top, without  having  his  eye  fall  on  some  spot 
which  had  its  story,  told  in  the  homely,  pictnr 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  63 

esque  dialect  of  the  people;  and  everyone 
told  and  listened  to  the  stories  about  men  who 
had  died  years  before,  as  if  they  themselves 
had  been  actors  in  the  scenes. 

It  was  in  this  country,  and  among  these 
people,  that  Walter  passed  his  childhood  and 
boyhood,  rambling  everywhere,  listening  to 
every  one,  seeing  everything,  and  putting  all 
away  in  his  great  roomy  memory  ;  no,  not 
putting  away,  for  what  we  merely  put  away  in 
our  memory  never  stays  there  ;  it  is  what  we 
bring  out  and  use  that  we  really  have  :  and 
Walter  soon  became  the  story-teller  of  the 
school ;  and  lying  on  the  grass,  or  walking 
with  a  comrade  afield,  he  would  weave  a  web 
of  romance,  half  remembered,  half  made  up  at 
the  moment,  to  which  the  lads  listened  with 
delight.  It  was  just  so  with  reading.  He 
read  here  and  there  in  all  sorts  of  books ;  but 
he  liked  best  books  of  chivalry,  histories  that 
told  of  battles,  and  ballads  in  which  horses 
went  rushing  by,  and  the  trumpet  sounded  for 
the  onset. 

As  he  grew  older,  he  began  to  buy  books 
with  the  little  spending  money  which  he  had, 
and  to  gather,  besides,  curious  relics  from  the 
places  which  he  visited.  In  some  ruined  castle 
there  had  once  been  great  banquets,  and  out- 


64  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

side,  gay  tournaments  ;  he  knew  by  heart  — 
for  his  love  was  in  it  —  the  names  of  the  men 
who  rode  forth  from  the  castle-yard  when  all 
those  stones  had  been  part  of  the  strong 
towers  ;  so  he  would  carry  away  with  him 
some  block  or  carving,  and  it  would  be  to 
him  like  the  miniature  of  a  friend ;  when  he 
looked  at  it,  he  could  rebuild  in  imagination 
the  old  castle,  and  repeople  it  with  its  gay 
pageant.  His  own  ancestors  would  be  found 
there,  for  he  seized  eagerly  upon  every  scrap 
of  Scottish  history  in  which  a  Scott  had 
figured. 

Thus  the  country  all  about  became  to  him  a 
living  book.  He  read  the  beauty  and  the  wild- 
ness  of  the  landscape,  and  he  read,  too,  the 
stories  written  on  it  by  the  hands  of  the  men, 
who,  for  hundreds  of  years,  fathers  and  sons, 
had  lived  their  strange,  adventurous  lives 
there.  But  this  was  much  like  dreaming ; 
and  all  this  while  he  was  going  on  with  the 
hard  work  of  a  plain  gentleman's  son,  who 
had  his  bread  to  earn.  His  father  was  a 
lawyer,  and  in  this  profession  Walter  was 
bred,  though  he  chose  a  different  branch  from 
that  pursued  by  his  father.  For  a  long  time, 
just  when  he  was  full  of  his  romance,  and  of 
the  good-fellowship  which  he  enjoyed  with  hi? 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  65 

companions  in  study,  he  worked  steadily  at  the 
driest  sort  of  labor,  not  relaxing  until  his  work 
was  done,  but  using-  his  pen  as  a  copyist  as  dil- 
igently as  if  he  were  engaged  in  the  lighter 
task  of  writing  a  letter  to  his  chosen  friend, 
William  Clerk.  His  good  sense  and  straight- 
forward honesty  led  him  into  habits  of  industry 
and  close  application,  which  were  of  inestima- 
ble value  to  him.  They  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  accomplish  a  vast  deal  of  work  ;  and 
better  than  that,  they  gave  him  power  to  keep 
his  strong  imagination  under  control,  so  that 
he  could  use  it,  and  not  be  run  away  with 
by  it. 

When  twenty-six  years  old,  he  married,  and 
lived  in  a  simple  fashion,  for  he  had  not  much 
money,  but  in  the  constant  enjoyment  of  the 
society  of  people  like  himself,  young,  hearty, 
witty,  and  thinking  more  of  the  inexhaustible 
pleasures  of  the  mind  and  heart,  than  of  those 
sensational  pleasures  which  are  worn  out  al- 
most before  they  can  be  gone  through  with. 
He  began  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  collecting 
some  of  the  old  ballads  that  he  had  so  often 
heard,  but  rarely  had  seen  in  print.  From 
this  he  turned  to  imitating  the  ballads,  and 
telling  in  verse  some  of  the  numberless  stories 
with  which  his  mind  was  full.  He  obtained 

5 


66  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

two  salaried  offices,  which  enabled  him  to  live 
as  he  could  not  by  his  profession,  for  which  he 
had  no  strong-  liking-,  and  now  his  taste  for  lit- 
erature became  more  fixed ;  it  was  evident  to 
himself,  before  it  was  to  his  friends,  that  writ- 
ing books  was  to  be  the  work  of  his  life.  But 
now  this  was  made  clear  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all,  by  the  publication  of  his  first  long-  poetical 
work,  —  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  In 
this  he  reproduced  the  stirring  scenes  which 
had  passed  away  from  men's  immediate  knowl- 
edge, but  which  in  his  mind  were  real,  living 
pictures  ;  he  set  them  before  others  in  so  lively 
a  fashion,  that  every  one  was  enchanted.  It 
had  not  seemed  possible  that  right  about  them, 
and  so  few  generations  back,  such  fine  things 
had  happened ;  and  now  here  they  were  told 
in  rhyme,  which  went  off  in  the  ear  like  the 
canter  of  a  pony.  The  poem  was  a  success, 
the  greatest  success  which  an  English  poet 
had  ever  up  to  that  time  enjoyed,  and  Scott 
was  now  a  famous  man,  and  thenceforth  till 
the  end  of  his  life,  writing  books,  and  es- 
pecially books  of  romance,  was  his  chief  busi- 
ness. 

There  followed  in  succession  the  poems : 
"  Marmion,"  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  "  Vision 
rf  Don  Roderick,"  "  Bokeby,"  "  Lord  of  the 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT.  67 

Itsles ;  "  but  overshadowing  these  works,  there 
began  and  grew  the  great  .series  of  romance, 
called  still  after  the  title  of  the  first,  "  The 
Waverley  Novels;"  The  first  one,  "  Waver- 
ley,"  grew  out  of  the  same  great  fund  of  ma- 
terial which  had  been  accumulating  in  Scott's 
mind  ;  but  it  was  in  his  own  eyes  a  more  haz- 
ardous proceeding  to  publish  it,  than  it  had 
been  to  publish  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel." There  were  no  successful  novels  then 
existing ;  good  poetry  was  more  popular,  and 
a  poet  stood  higher  in  men's  minds  than  a 
novelist.  Partly,  perhaps,  for  these  reasons, 
and  partly  for  the  pleasure  of  overhearing 
himself  talked  of,  Scott  published  "  Waverley  " 
without  putting  his  name  to  it,  and  continued 
to  publish  the  series  of  novels  in  the  same  way. 
For  fourteen  years  these  volumes  were  coming 
out  almost  as  fast  as  the  eager  public  could 
read  them, — in  one  year  three  novels  in  ten 
volumes  being  published,  —  and  yet  Scott 
never  acknowledged  their  authorship,  except 
to  the  few  to  whom  he  had  intrusted  the 
secret.  Of  course,  long  before  he  publicly 
claimed  them,  people  talked  of  him  as  the 
author,  and  he  only  told  at  length  what  every 
one  knew  ;  but  there  was  a  mystery  about  the 
publication,  and  something  so  nearly  impos- 


68  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

aible  in  one  man  turning  out  such  a  prodigious 
amount  of  work,  that  there  was  a  stout  dis- 
cussion going  on  all  the  time  whether  Scott 
really  was  the  author.  Some  of  his  intimate 
friends,  who  were  not  in  the  secret,  would  not 
believe  him  the  author,  for  they  saw  him  con- 
stantly engaged  all  day  long  with  other  work, 
or  showing  his  liberal  hospitality  :  they  did  not 
see  him,  however,  in  the  early  morning,  when 
he  was  throwing  off  sheet  after  sheet  of  his 
latest  novel  before  the  household  had  risen ; 
or  at  night  in  his  chamber  when  the  household 
was  at  rest.  Lockhart,  who  has  written  Scott's 
Life,  tells  us  how  once  in  Edinburgh  he  was 
dining  with  some  young  fellows,  gay  and 
thoughtless  like  himself,  with  little  care  ex- 
cept to  make  the  present  pass  quickly ;  —  but 
we  will  let  him  tell  his  story  :  — 

"After  carousing  for  an  hour  or  more,  I  ob- 
served thafr  a  shade  had  come  over  the  aspect 
of  my  friend  Meuzies,  who  happened  to  be 
placed  immediately  opposite  to  myself,  and 
said  something  that  intimated  a  fear  of  his 
being  unwell.  '  No ! '  said  he.  *  I  shall  be 
well  enough  presently,  if  you  will  only  let  me 
git  where  you  are,  and  take  my  chair;  for 
there  is  a  confounded  hand  in  sight  of  me 
here,  which  has  often  bothered  me  before,  an« 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  69 

now  it  won't  let  me  fill  my  glass  with  a  good 
will.5  I  rose  to  change  places  with  him  ac- 
cordingly, and  he  pointed  out  to  me  this  hand, 
which,  like  the  writing  on  Belshazzar's  wall, 
disturbed  his  hour  of  hilarity.  {  Since  we  sat 
down,'  he  said,  '  I  have  heen  watching  it :  it 
fascinates  my  eye ;  it  never  stops ;  page  after 
page  is  finished,  and  thrown  on  that  heap  of 
manuscript,  and  still  it  goes  on  unwearied ; 
and  so  it  will  be  till  candles  are  brought  in, 
and  God  knows  how  long  after  that.  It  is  the 
same  every  night :  I  can't  stand  a  sight  of  it 
when  I  am  not  at  my  books.'  — '  Some  stupid, 
dogged,  engrossing  clerk,  probably,'  exclaimed 
myself,  '  or  some  other  giddy  youth  in  our  so- 
ciety.' — '  No,  boys  ! '  said  our  host ;  *  I  well 
know  what  hand  it  is :  'tis  Walter  Scott's.' 
This  was  the  hand  that,  in  the  evenings  of 
three  summer  weeks,  wrote  the  two  last  vol- 
umes of  '  Waverley.'  Would  that  all  who 
that  night  watched  it,  had  profited  by  its  ex- 
ample of  diligence  as  largely  as  William  Men- 
zies ! " 

As  Scott's  popularity  rose  with  each  suc- 
cessive novel,  so  his  prosperity  increased,  and 
he  set  about  achieving  what  had  long  been  a 
cherished  purpose  —  the  building  for  himself 
a  house  in  the  heart  of  his  beloved  countrv. 


70  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

which  should  be  his  own,  and,  like  the  houses 
of  his  ancestors,  be  the  gathering  place  of  all 
his  friends  and  kinsmen,  where  he  could  dis- 
play a  hospitality  as  broad  as  his  generous 
nature  desired  ;  and  where,  too,  he  could  re- 
alize to  the  full  his  darling  ambition  of  living 
a  right  noble  Scottish  life,  farming,  planting 
trees,  and  making  a  grand  Scott  homestead. 
As  with  all  the  rest  of  his  plans,  this  grew, 
from  little  beginnings  and  humble  intentions, 
to  vast  proportions ;  and  the  result  was  Abbots- 
ford,  with  its  great  castle-like  house,  built  of 
spoils  from  all  the  neighboring  ruins,  and 
filled  with  curious  ancient  relics,  which  the 
enthusiastic  antiquary  gathered  and  received 
from  every  quarter.  Here  his  friends  came, 
and  about  him  here  his  family  grew ;  while 
the  farm  itself,  under  his  artist  eye,  developed 
into  a  lovely  and  varied  estate. 

Did  not  this  seem  to  be  a  sunny  life  ?  and 
yet  there  was  to  come  a  storm  ;  and  after  the 
storm,  men  were  to  see  this  stalwart,  oaken 
character  still  erect,  though  beaten  upon 
sorely. 

Early  in  his  literary  career,  indeed  before 
he  was  fairly  a  writer,  Scott  had  interested 
himself  in  an  old  school  friend,  James  Ballan- 
tvne,  who  was  a  printer  at  Kelso.  He  induced 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT.  71 

him  to  come  to  Edinburgh,  and  used  his  in- 
fluence to  obtain  work  for  him  ;  by  degrees,  as 
his  own  schemes  of  authorship  took  shape,  he 
joined  his  fortunes  with  those  of  his  friend, 
and  was  in  effect  a  partner  of  his  in  a  great 
and  growing  business.  Scott  wrote  the  books 
which  Ballantyne  printed,  and  his  mighty  in- 
dustry kept  the  presses  filled.  Was  it  strange 
that  Scott  should  have  been  thought  by  his 
partner,  and  should  have  thought  himself,  to 
have  an  inexhaustible  capital  in  his  brain,  when 
he  had  only  to  write  a  novel,  and  thousands  of 
pounds  flowed  in  at  once?  But  over  confi- 
dence, bad  management,  and  troublesome 
times,  brought  a  crisis.  The  printing  and 
publishing  houses  in  which  he  was  interested, 
failed,  and  Scott  became  suddenly  a  poor  man 
—  but  still  with  that  California  head  of  his. 

And  now  came  the  turn  in  Sir  Walter's  life, 
which,  with  all  its  sadness,  led  to  his  noblest 
honor.  The  law  gave  him  the  chance  to  es- 
cape the  obligation  laid  upon  him  by  the  failure 
of  Ballantyue,  but  he  refused  to  accept  it. 
Friends,  even  strangers,  came  forward  with 
magnificent  offers  of  money,  but  he  put  them 
aside,  took  up  his  pen,  and  deliberately  set 
about  discharging  debts  which  his  sense  of 
aonor  forbade  him  to  disregard.  He  was  to 


72  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

roll  off  a  load  of  five  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars. Look  at  this  man  !  nearly  sixty  years  of 
age,  "lonely,  aged,  deprived  of  my  family  — 
all  but  poor  Anne,"  as  he  writes,  when  fast 
following  his  losses,  comes  the  death  of  his 
wife  ;  so  lonely,  that  for  companionship  he 
talks  to  his  daily  "  Diary,"  yet  working  on  and 
on,  steadily  giving  himself  to  his  task,  and 
shrinking  from  no  labor  that  may  bring  him 
nearer  to  the  goal  of  his  desires ;  warned  by  a 
paralytic  stroke,  yet  again  taking  his  heavy 
pen,  which  once  raced  lightly  over  the  paper, 
—  we  turn  away,  and  will  not  look  at  the  fail- 
ing strength,  the  broken  body,  the  worn  mind. 
He  died  the  21st  of  September,  1832,  having, 
with  almost  superhuman  strength,  discharged 
half  of  his  obligations.  His  family  and  friends 
took  up  the  sacred  debt,  and  discharged  the 
remainder.  The  world  will  never  cease  owing 
a  debt  of  gratitude  to  one  who  has  cheered  it 
with  so  many  pure  and  noble  tales,  and  given 
it,  besides,  his  own  hearty,  whole-souled,  manly 
life. 


THE  SINGING  OF  THE  SEIRENg. 

AS    TOLD    BY    ODYSSEUS. 

[Odysseus  and  his  shipmates,  returning  from  the  shores 
where  they  had  called  up  the  shadowy  ghosts,  once  more 
feasted  on  Kirke's  island,  and  rested  before  they  should  take 
up  again  their  wanderings.  Odysseus  told  Kirke  what  they 
nad  passed  through,  and  whither  they  now  were  to  go  she  in 
turn  revealed  to  him.] 

KIRKE  speaks.  —  "  So,  all  these  labors  have 
come  to  an  end ;  —  now  hear  what  I  shall  tell 
thee :  it  is  God  himself  shall  show  it.  To  the 
Seirens  thou  first  wilt  come,  that  bewitch  men, 
when  any  one  draws  nigh ;  when  he,  unwitting, 
nears  them  and  hears  the  sound  of  their  sing- 
ing, to  him  no  wife  nor  children  dear  stand  at 
the  door  to  welcome  him  to  his  home  again, 
no,  but  the  Seirens  enchant  him  with  their 
silvery  melody  as  they  sit  on  the  meadow  sward. 
But  —  around  them  is  a  huge  heap  of  bones 
with  shrivelling  flesh,  the  bones,  the  flesh  of 
rotting  men.  Row  past !  row  past  their  isle 
and  stuff  thy  fellows'  ears  with  honeyed  wax 
that  none  may  hear.  Thus  with  the  rest,  but 
be  it  thine  to  hear  if  thou  wilt,  bidding  the 


74  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

men  bind  thee  hand  and  foot,  erect  upon  the 
mast-frame,  with  the  ropes  tightly  gathered 
about  the  mast.  So  thou  mayst  take  thy  fill 
of  joy  in  listening  to  the  Seirens.  But  if  thou 
iinplorest  thy  comrades,  yea  bidst  them  set 
thee  free,  then  let  them  fetter  thee  with  still 
other  bands." 

Such  were  her  words  :  then  straight  the 
Light  of  Day  rose  in  the  East  and  sat  on  her 
throne  of  gold.  Back  over  her  island  home 
went  heavenly  Kirke,  and  I  to  my  ship  again, 
where  I  bade  the  fellows  climb  once  more  the 
ship's  side  and  cast  loose  the  hawsers.  Up 
they  clomb  and  took  their  places  on  the  rowers' 
benches  ;  stroke  on  stroke  their  oars  dipped  in 
the  frothy  sea,  but  again  came  a  fore  wind, 
bellying  the  sails  and  making  the  ship's  prow 
cut  the  waves  with  its  deep-blue  blade ;  brave 
messmate  that,  for  our  voyage,  sent  by  Kirke, 
strange  goddess  with  her  waving  tresses  and 
her  human  voice !  So,  straight,  all  left  the 
oars  and  sat  on  deck,  each  hammering  at  his 
armor,  whilst  the  wind  and  the  helmsman  kept 
the  ship  on  her  course.  Then  I  opened  my 
lips,  and  ont  of  my  heavy  heart  spoke  to  the 
fellows :  — 

"  Friends  all !  for  it  were  not  well  that  one 


THE  SINGING   OF  THE  SE1RENS.         75 

or  two  at  most,  should  know  the  fateful  tales 
which  Kirke  told  to  me.  I  will  retell  them 
that  all  may  know  and  die,  if  die  we  must,  or 
know  them  to  escape,  and  flee  a  fated  death. 
First  then,  she  warns  us  shun  the  voice  of 
the  heavenly-throated  Seirens,  and  the  flowery 
inead  whereon  they  rest.  Me  only  would  she 
have  to  hear  their  song.  But  tie  me  with 
stubborn  ties  that  I  may  stay  fast  bound,  erect 
upon  the  mast-frame,  with  the  ropes  knotted 
to  the  mast.  And  should  I  beg,  nay,  command 
you  to  loose  me,  do  you  only  press  me  tight  to 
the  mast  with  more  bands  still." 

Each  of  Kirke's  tales  I  told  in  turn  ;  while 
I  was  yet  speaking,  our  good  ship,  flying  for- 
ward, was  at  the  Seirens'  isle,  for  the  favoring 
breeze  drove  her  on.  Then  all  at  once  the 
wind  dropped  ;  there  was  a  dead  calm  ;  a  spirit 
hushed  the  waves  in  slumber.  The  men  arose, 
furled  the  ship's  sails  and  laid  them  by  in  the 
hold,  then  sat  on  the  rowers'  benches  and 
turned  up  the  foaming  water  with  their  smooth 
oars.  For  me,  I  took  a  great  cake  of  wax  and, 
cutting  it  into  bits  with  a  sharp  knife,  kneaded 
the  pieces  with  my  sturdy  hands.  Quickly  the 
wax  melted,  for  it  yielded  to  the  mighty  force 
Df  the  Sun-god,  Hyperion's  kingly  son.  One 
by  one  I  smeared  the  ears  of  all  my  comrades, 


76  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

who  gathered  around  and  bound  me  hand  and 
foot,  erect  upon  the  mast-frame,  with  the  ropes 
well  knotted  to  the  mast.  Again  they  sat  and 
beat  the  frothy  sea  with  their  oars.  And  when 
we  were  as  far  off  from  the  island  as  a  man 
could  be  heard  if  he  shouted,  while  rowing 
lightly,  the  sea-swift  ship  pressed  near  and 
escaped  not  the  charmers  who  lifted  up  their 
clear  warbliugs. 

"  Hither  ho  !  draw  near,  Odysseus,  worthy 
of  a  world  of  praise,  the  glory  of  the  Achaeaii 
name ;  stay  thy  ship  to  hear  our  voice.  For 
iiever  sailed  one  by  in  his  dark  ship  and 
stopped  to  hear  the  celestial  songs  flowing 
from  our  lips,  but  went  he  on  his  way,  merry 
at  heart  and  wise  in  soul.  We  know  all  that 
befell  thee  on  the  broad  plain  of  Troy  —  all 
that  the  Argive  host  and  Trojans  suffered  at 
the  hest  of  the  gods.  Yea,  we  know  whatso- 
ever cometh  to  life  in  all  the  springing  earth." 

These  were  the  words  borne  on  their  heav- 
enly voice.  My  heart  was  moved.  I  yearned 
to  listen,  and  I  commanded  the  men  to  set  me 
free,  frowning  at  them  with  my  eyebrows. 
But  they  only  bent  low  at  their  oars  and  rowed 
on ;  while  Perimedes  and  Eurylochus  arose 
and  tied  me  with  more  cords  and  jammed  me 
to  the  mast.  Then,  when  we  had  rowed  by 


THE  SINGING   OF  THE  SEIRENS.         77 

these  charmers,  and  could  no  longer  hear  the 
words  of  the  Seirens  nor  the  melody  of  their 
voices,  my  trusty  comrades  drew  out  the  wax 
with  which  I  had  estopped  their  ears  and 
loosed  me  from  mv  fetters- 


FRANCIS    HUi3ER. 

THERE  is  an  old  familiar  story  called  "  Eyes 
and  no  Eyes,"  which  tells  how  two  boys,  who 
had  each  a  good  pair  of  eyes,  took  the  same 
walk  in  the  country,  but  came  back,  one  with 
nothing  to  tell  because  he  had  not  used  his 
eyes ;  the  other  with  his  head  full  of  remark- 
able sights  which  he  had  seen.  When  Spring 
comes,  and  there  is  a  general  waking  up  of 
Nature,  eyes  have  a  wonderful  deal  to  look 
at ;  do  they  see  half  as  much  as  a  blind 
man  once  saw  who  literally  had  no  eyes,  and 
yet  has  written  the  most  minute  and  accurate 
account  of  the  habits  of  that  little  creature, 
the  bee  ? 

Francis  Htiber  was  born  with  a  good  pair 
of  eyes,  in  Geneva,  Switzerland,  July  2,  1750. 
His  parents  were  well-known  citizens,  who 
gave  him  a  good  education,  and  he  cared  so 
much  for  study  and  reading,  that  he  very  un- 
wisely bartered  his  eyes  for  knowledge  ;  for 
late  at  night  he  worked  in  his  room  over  a  dim 
candle,  and  when  that  went  out,  by  the  light 


FRANCIS  HUBER.  79 

of  the  moon,  carrying-  further  the  studies  of 
the  day,  and  reading  romances.  He  diu  not 
take  very  good  care  of  himself,  it  is  to  be 
feared;  for  his  health,  and  with  it  his  sight, 
began  to  give  way  when  he  was  about  fifteen. 
It  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  become  bliud, 
and  his  father  took  him  to  Paris  to  consult  a 
famous  oculist.  This  physician  sent  him  into 
the  country,  away  from  books  and  college 
friends,  to  lead  the  life  of  a  peasant  upon  a 
farm.  He  lived  with  the  plain  people  about 
him,  following  the  plough  all  day,  and  sleep- 
ing all  night,  instead  of  wasting  caudles  and 
moonlight.  His  health  returned,  and  he  went 
back  to  Geneva,  in  love  with  the  country,  and 
with  his  head  full  of  many  things  that  he  had 
noticed  as  he  worked  in  the  fields. 

But  his  eyes  grew  dimmer,  and  it  became 
certain  that  he  must  be  soon  totally  blind.  Be- 
fore they  closed,  however,  he  had  seen  the  face 
of  a  young  girl,  Marie  Lullin,  whom  he  was  to 
see  but  a  short  time  longer,  but  who  was  to  live 
faithfully  with  him  for  forty  years.  Her  father 
was  very  angry  that  a  young  man  about  to  be 
totally  blind  should  oflfer  to  marry  his  daughter, 
who  had  two  eyes,  and  was  to  have  a  large 
fortune,  and  refused  his  consent  to  the  mar- 
riage. Huber,  in  despair,  used  all  the  remain- 


30  AT  THE  STUDY  TABLE. 

ing  light  iii  his  eyes  to  get  such  a  vivid  knowl- 
edge of  things  about  him  as  should  last  him 
when  he  could  no  longer  see.  He  looked  at 
everything  closely,  and  putting  together  what 
he  saw  with  what  he  remembered,  and  what 
he  imagined  he  saw,  he  was  able  to  present 
such  a  picture  to  himself  as  sometimes  even 
deceived  him  into  believing  that  he  saw  every 
particle  of  it,  just  as  we  think  we  recollect  a 
good  many  things  that  happened  to  us  when 
children,  because  they  have  been  told  us  over 
and  over.  At  any  rate,  he  used  his  knowledge 
and  sight  so  discreetly,  that  it  was  very  hard 
for  other  people  to  suppose  him  nearly  blind ; 
and  this  was  exactly  what  he  wished,  for  it  was 
his  probable  helplessness  which  made  Marie's 
father  refuse  him  his  daughter.  But  Lullin 
was  not  won  over  by  this  course,  and  steadily 
kept  to  his  refusal.  Marie,  however,  remained 
faithful ;  and  when,  seven  years  after,  at  twen- 
ty-five, the  law  allowed  her  freedom,  she 
married  Huber,  and  thenceforth  was  insepar- 
able from  him,  reading  to  him,  writing  for 
him,  and,  most  of  all,  observing  for  him. 

For  this  was  the  wonderful  fact  about  Huber, 
that  having  no  eyes,  he  used  the  eyes  of  those 
about  him  in  such  a  way,  that  he  was  able  to 
make  discoveries  which  astonished  the  scien« 


FRANCIS  UUBER.  81 

tific  world,  and  have  never  been  proved  false. 
He  had  his  wife,  he  had  also  a  sagacious  and 
devoted  servant,  named  Francis  Buruens,  and 
finally  his  son  Pierre  grew  up  to  observe  for 
him,  and  to  become  himself  famous  for  his 
study  of  ants.  Huber's  life  in  the  country  had 
made  him  fond  cf  Natural  History,  and  his  in- 
terest had  been  increased  by  reading ;  more- 
over, he  had  a  neighbor  named  Charles  Bon- 
net, who  had  some  reputation  as  a  scientific 
man,  and  came  to  talk  with  him. 

In  his  darkness,  therefore,  for  he  had  now 
become  totally  blind,  he  began  to  remember 
certain  facts  about  bees,  which  he  had  noticed, 
and  wished  to  explain  them.  For  this  it  was 
necessary  to  watch  them,  and  he  set  Francis 
Burnens  to  work,  telling  him  what  to  look  at 
and  to  look  for.  He  asked  him  questions  in 
such  a  way  that  the  quick-witted  servant 
learned  what  to  notice,  and  daily  reported  his 
observations.  Huber's  mind  became  intensely 
occupied  with  this  subject.  He  asked  his  wife 
and  his  neighbors  what  they  saw,  and  if  they 
saw  thus  and  thus.  In  this  way  he  was  getting 
the  observations  of  a  number  of  people,  who 
all  saw  independently  of  each  other  ;  and  Hu- 
ber  once  said, 'smiling,  to  a  brother  naturalist, 
**  I  am  much  more  certain  of  what  I  state 

6 


82  AT   THE   STUDY  TABLE. 

than  you  are ;  for  you  publish  what  your  own 
eyes  only  have  seen,  while  I  take  the  mean 
among  many  witnesses." 

In  his  darkness,  Huber's  mind  took  hold  of 
the  facts  presented  to  it,  and  turned  them 
about,  put  them  together,  made  one  explain 
another;  and,  in  a  word,  constructed  whole 
facts  out  of  the  bits  and  fragments  which  dif- 
ferent people  brought  to  him.  "  He  discov- 
ered," for  instance,  says  one  of  his  friends, 
"that  the  nuptials,  so  mysterious  and  so  re- 
markably fruitful,  of  the  queen  bee,  the  only 
mother  of  the  tribe,  never  take  place  in  the 
hive,  but  always  in  the  open  air,  and  at  such  an 
elevation  as  to  escape  ordinary  observation,  — 
but  not  the  intelligence  of  a  blind  man,  aided 
by  a  peasant.  He  confirmed,  by  multiplied 
observations,  the  discovery  of  Schirach,  until 
then  disputed,  that  bees  can  transform,  at 
pleasure,  the  eggs  of  working  bees  into  queens 
by  appropriate  food.  He  described  with  much 
3are  the  combats  of  queen  bees  with  each 
other,  the  massacre  of  drones,  and  all  the 
singular  occurrences  which  take  place  in  a 
hive  when  a  strange  queen  is  introduced  as  a 
substitute  for  the  natural  queen.  He  showed 
the  influence  which  the  dimensions  of  the  cells 
exert  upon  the  shape  of  the  insects  which  pro 


FRANCIS  HUBER.  83 

ceed  from  them;  he  related  the  manner  by 
which  the  larvae  spin  the  silk  of  their  cocoons ; 
he  studied  the  origin  of  swarms,  and  was  the 
first  who  gave  a  rational  and  accurate  history 
of  those  flying  colonies."  This,  and  very 
much  more,  is  recited  as  the  discovery  of  Hu- 
ber. 

Now  who  saw  all  this,  Francis  Burnens  or 
Francis  Huber  ?  Bees  had  been  seen  by  peas- 
ants ever  since  the  world  began,  and  yet  Hu- 
ber, who  had  no  eyes,  was  the  first  really  to 
see  them.  Burnens  was  indefatigable  in  fol- 
lowing his  master's  directions,  but  he  could 
not  put  his  facts  together  as  Huber  did.  Just 
so  our  eyes  may  rest  upon  everything  about 
us,  but  behind  the  eye  is  the  mind,  that  sits 
like  Huber  all  alone,  and  directs  the  eye  what 
to  look  at  and  report  to  it ;  and  it  is  just  as 
the  mind  directs  and  the  eye  obeys,  that  we 
find  out  things,  —  discover,  —  that  is,  take  oif 
the  cover  and  see  what  is  underneath.  That 
habit  which  Huber  formed  when  he  was  grow- 
ing blind,  of  putting  together  what  he  heard 
and  what  he  remembered  and  also  saw  very 
imperfectly,  was  a  capital  preparation  for  his 
scientific  studies  afterwards,  and  made  it  more 
possible  for  him  to  put  Burnens'  facts  into  just 
their  right  places.  Burnens  brought  him  this 


84  AT   THE   STUDY   TABLE. 

and  that,  and  Huber   put  this  and   that  to- 
gether. 

Every  one  who  knew  him  said  that  he  was 
a  happy  man,  and  no  wonder,  for  his  mind  was 
busy  all  the  while  about  things  worth  know- 
ing; and  instead  of  complaining  bitterly  and 
idly  that  he  had  no  eyes,  he  thanked  God  that 
he  had  a  mind,  and  could  make  very  good 
use  of  other  people's  eyes.  He  died  in  1831, 
eighty-one  years  of  age. 


WHEN  MUSIC   IS  HEARD. 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY. 

THERE  had  been  a  music-party  at  the  house 
of  the  Professor.  The  instruments  were  a 
piano,  two  violins,  and  a  violoncello ;  the  music 
was  chiefly  from  Beethoven  and  Mozart. 
There  was,  however,  one  piece  from  Haydn 
which  was  the  most  entertaining  of  all,  for  in 
that  the  company  also  acted  as  performers.  It 
was  his  Children  Symphony,  in  giving  which 
an  orchestra  is  required,  beside  the  violins  and 
violoncello,  of  a  night-owl,  cuckoo,  quail,  rat- 
tle, whistle,  bells,  penny  trumpet,  and  drum. 
Each  of  these  instruments  has  its  appointed 
part,  and  a  good  interpreter  of  the  music  fan- 
cies a  sleighing  party  or  hunt,  a  mimic  battle 
or  a  spring  scene  in  which  the  cuckoo  with 
"  ominous  note  "  has  it  all  its  own  way,  with  no 
« indignant  poet  to  put  it  to  flight.  This  piece 
had  been  performed  with  great  success,  spite 
of  the  sheepiness  of  the  young  gentleman  who 
played  the  penny  trumpet,  and  considering  also 
the  defective  playing  upon  the  whistle.  But 
fcvery  orchestra  has  its  faults,  though  few  main- 


58  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

tain  such  good  feeling  as  did  the  amateur  one 
upon  the  evening  mentioned.  The  parts  had 
been  distributed  without  much  regard  to  the 
character  of  the  performers,  and  the  student, 
who  was  particularly  unmartial,  and  somewhat 
melancholy  indeed,  was  the  one  who  played  the 
trumpet  so  badly ;  the  rattle  was  given  to  a 
young  lady  who  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening 
in  looking  over  an  album  of  photographs  upon 
the  tahle,  and  the  night-owl  fell  to  the  liveliest 
person  in  the  room.  But  just  this  incongruity 
made  more  fun.  The  company  was  small  and 
well-chosen ;  there  was  unconstrained  enjoy- 
ment ;  the  music  was  carefully  selected  and 
admirably  played  ;  the  Children  Symphony  was 
novel  and  well  carried  out,  and  all  agreed  that 
the  evening,  now  at  an  end,  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  they  had  ever  spent.  The  host  and 
his  amiable  wife  followed  the  company  to  the 
door,  and  at  last  all  were  gone. 

The  student,  however,  remained  a  little 
longer,  as  he  was  a  privileged  person,  and  it 
was  well  understood  between  him  and  the  Pro- 
fessor's daughters  that  there  was  an  entire 
mould  of  ice-cream  left,  which  could  not  pos- 
sibly keep  and  which  it  was  a  pity  to  throw 
away.  This  after-play  lasted  a  while  and 
ended  with  the  student's  asking  to  hear  once 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  89 

more  upon  the  piano  an  air  which  had  lodged 
in  his  head  during  the  evening.  The  piano 
was  reopened,  the  air  played,  and  the  student 
rose  to  go.  He  noticed  the  stringed  instru- 
ments in  their  cases  placed  in  the  corner  of 
the  room,  and  learned  that  the  gentlemen  who 
played  them  had  asked  permission  to  leave 
them  till  the  morning ;  the  instruments  were 
valuable  ones  and  the  cases  were  opened  for 
him  to  see.  Thus  it  chanced  that  the  piano, 
the  violins,  and  the  violoncello  were  all  again 
uncovered,  and  what  is  more  important  to  us, 
—  for  otherwise  our  account  would  have  heen 
through  by  this  time,  —  they  were  left  so, 
although  it  was  very  careless  on  the  part  of  all 
concerned. 

The  student  shut  the  door  of  the  house  be- 
hind him  and  stood  upon  the  step  outside,  but- 
toning his  great-coat  about  him.  The  moon 
was  touching  the  fringe  of  heavy  clouds  and 
just  setting  out  over  the  blue  sea  of  sky.  He 
stopped  as  he  was  closing  the  upper  button- 
hole of  his  coat  and  looked  up  at  the  witching 
sight.  The  passage,  which  had  been  repeated 
to  him  just  now  lingered  in  his  brain,  and  he 
remembered  its  connection  in  the  music.  It 
had  come  out  clear  and  lovely  from  a  dark 
mass  of  sound,  flowing  along  with  liquid  mel 


90  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

ody.  It  was  like  the  moon  above  him,  and  as 
he  recalled  other  effects  in  the  same  piece,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  there  were  nothing  in 
creation  so  wonderful  as  sound. 

"  How  subtle  it  is  !  "  said  he.  "  It  steals 
so  into  the  brain  and  holds  such  power  over 
one.  There  surely  is  nothing"  so  penetrating 
and  which  yet  can  swell  to  such  compass. 
Souud,  methinks,  must  have  a  life  of  its  own 
—  a  personality  ;  it  is  so  human,  it  must  have 
its  sympathy  and  antipathy  like  mortals. 
What  exquisite  sensibility,  then,  it  must  pos- 
sess, finer  far  than  that  of  the  most  sensuous 
poet.  It  must  have  a  most  tremulous,  airy 
susceptibility.  It  is  without  doubt  the  most 
delicate  essence  of  soul.  In  such  a  guise  one 
might  discover  the  secrets  of  soul-life.  0 
that  I  might  for  once  be  a  sound  !  " 

Now  the  reason  why  we  do  not  always  get 
what  we  wish  for  is,  that  we  do  not  wish  so 
hard  as  to  believe  that  we  have  it ;  this  was 
not  the  case  with  the  student.  He  had  be- 
come so  entirely  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  delightful  nature  of  sound,  as  he  stood 
thus  watching  the  moon,  that  when  he  sud- 
denly and  fervently  uttered  this  wish,  he  had 
his  wish  granted.  No  sooner  had  he  spoken 
the  word  than  he  was  conscious  of  a  remark- 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  91 

able  change.  His  soul,  so  to  speak,  undressed 
itself,  casting  off  the  body,  and  he  would  have 
been  in  a  very  destitute  condition  if  the  change 
had  stopped  here,  since  it  is  not  expedient  here 
to  be  without  a  body,  even  in  travelling,  as 
some  do  contrariwise  affirm  ;  but  at  the  same 
time  the  sound  which  had  lingered  in  his  brain 
began  to  swell.  It  penetrated  his  soul  like 
moisture,  until  he  was,  as  it  were,  absorbed  in 
the  sound  ;  but  that  did  not  prevent  him  from 
using  his  faculties  so  far  as  they  could  be  used 
when  the  senses  were  gone,  —  with  this  addi- 
tion, however,  that  he  was  now  like  a  well  tuned 
music-box  playing  an  air  with  nobody  to  listen 
to  it. 

Sound  easily  moves,  as  we  all  know;  it  is 
very  much  governed  by  attraction  also,  and 
accordingly  the  student,  leaving  his  body  up- 
right upon  the  door-step,  was  drawn  involun- 
tarily through  the  key-hole  of  the  outer  door, 
and  thus  by  the  hall  back  into  the  room  where 
the  music  had  been  given  ;  for  there  were 
other  sounds  possessing  attractive  power.  In- 
deed, when  the  studeut-souud  entered  the  room, 
a  great  number  of  notes,  some  from  the  violins, 
some  from  the  violoncello,  and  some  from  the 
piano,  were  hovering  about ;  they  were  of  every 
variety  of  character,  and  when  they  came  from 


92  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

the  music-writer's  brain  and  found  life  through 
the  medium  of  his  instrument,  they  were  like 
a  great  multitude  of  people,  each  with  a  separ- 
ate temperament.  But  the  student  was  only 
dimly  conscious  of  their  presence,  since  he  also 
was  a  sound,  and  like  them  had  existence  with- 
out sense.  He  differed  from  them  in  this, 
however,  that  in  him  sound  was  associated 
with  soul ;  if  he  could  only  find  some  sort  of  a 
body  now  suitable  to  his  state,  he  would  have 
excellent  advantages. 

It  seems  strange  that  when  the  student  was 
so  entirely  musical  as  at  this  moment,  he 
should  bethink  himself  of  a  large  picture 
which  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  which  was 
more  interesting  as  a  historical  picture  than 
as  a  work  of  art.  It  was  the  Death- bed  of 
Calvin  and  contained  many  figures.  Of  this 
picture  the  student  thought,  just  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  most  embarrassed  by  the 
absence  of  his  body  which  he  had  left  upon  the 
door-step.  An  odd  fancy  crossed  his  mind. 
"  How  would  one  of  the  figures  in  the  picture 
answer  as  a  substitute  for  my  body  ?  "  When 
a  soul  that  is  so  refined  as  to  be  for  the  greater 
part  a  sound,  has  any  wish,  it  does  not  need  to 
express  it  earnestly  ;  the  mere  suggestion  is 
enough,  and  thus  instantly  the  student  had  the 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  93 

satisfaction  of  taking  possession  of  the  body, 
such  as  it  was,  of  one  of  the  figures  in  the 
picture. 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  he,  naturally  fastidi- 
ous and  rendered  more  so  by  his  musical 
nature,  "that  this  is  not  the  most  fitting 
abode  for  me ;  my  face  is  not  very  beautiful, 
neither  is  my  dress,  especially  this  ruffled  collar, 
nor  is  it  pleasant  to  be  so  near  a  sick-bed.  I 
will  get  a  little  farther  off;"  and  he  moved 
into  the  person  at  the  end  of  the  room  —  the 
syndic,  so  proud  of  his  handsome  leg.  He 
proceeded  to  make  the  most  of  his  situation. 
Naturally  he  tried  the  ears  first  of  his  new 
body,  and  though  they  were  quite  dispropor- 
tionate to  his  delicate  organization,  they  were 
of  some  use ;  just  as  a  fine  musician  may  draw 
sweet  sounds  from  a  wretched  instrument. 
His  eyes  were  next  attended  to ;  here  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  obliged  to  look  through 
the  glazing  of  the  picture ;  thus  it  was  like 
always  being  upon  the  outside  of  a  window ; 
but,  that  too,  was  only  a  partial  hindrance.  His 
nose  he  found  to  be  quite  stopped  up  with 
dust,  but  he  was  not  sorry  for  it  when  he  re- 
membered that  he  was  in  a  sick-room.  His 
eyes  and  ears  were,  in  fact,  all  that  he  was 
particular  about,  especially  as  he  considered 


94  WHEN  MUSIC   IS  HEARD. 

that  he  only  meant  his  abode  in  that  body  to 
be  a  temporary  one. 

He  was  now  quite  comfortably  settled,  and 
began  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  what  he  saw 
and  heard  about  him.  The  sounds  which  be- 
fore he  had  known  to  be  present  by  a  sort  of 
attraction  to  them,  he  now  was  able  to  distin- 
guish. There  were  two  kinds.  One  was  that 
of  sounds  which  had  entered  the  mind  of  some 
one  of  those  present  in  the  evening  and  had 
served  as  the  material  for  some  creation. 
They  had  entered  by  the  ear  and  found  per- 
sonality, and  indeed,  individuality,  and  having 
once  entered  a  human  soul,  were,  like  our  hero, 
incapable  of  enjoyment  from  sources  outside 
of  themselves,  unless  harbored  in  some  form 
approaching  at  least  the  human  ;  for  they  are 
no  longer  pure  sounds,  but  by  their  abode  in 
man,  have  acquired  something  of  the  character 
of  his  soul,  and  hence  require  a  bodily  comple- 
ment. It  is  the  aspiration  of  all  such,  driven 
out  of  the  mind  where  they  had  been  first  wel- 
comed, to  return  again  to  their  old  haunts ; 
nor  do  they  obtain  rest  until  they  achieve 
their  purpose.  Perhaps  for  months  or  even 
vears  they  wander  desolately  about,  separated 
tiich  from  the  dimidium  animcB  SMCB,  yet  do 
they  sometimes  receive  a  fresh  welcome  j  what 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  95 

wonder  then,  that  readmitted,  they  persistently 
remain,  and  all  day  long-  we  work  and  play 
and  read  to  the  melody  which  will  not  away 
from  our  minds  ?  These,  therefore,  had,  like 
our  hero,  obtained  various  tenements  :  one, 
more  fortunate  than  the  rest,  in  the  face  and 
chest  of  the  lovable  Mozart ;  one  in  the  faces 
that  make  up  the  Sistine  Madonna  ;  out  of  the 
eyes  of  the  two  cherubs  looked  forth  others, 
and  the  cloud-faces  swarmed  with  them.  Some 
had  established  themselves  in  the  various  per- 
sonages in  the  large  picture  already  mentioned. 
Even  the  Professor's  grandfather's  portrait  in 
oil  was  not  without  its  lodger ;  and  the  image 
of  the  lively  Zouave  that  stood  upon  a  bracket, 
surmounted  by  a  feather,  housed  a  very  merry 
sound. 

But  these  were  not  the  only  ones.  Our 
student,  in  his  sound-soul,  did  gain  something 
from  his  bereft  condition,  for  he  was  able  to 
see  what  would  have  been  forbidden  to  his 
merely  physical  eyes.  There  were  a  multitude 
of  sounds  present  which  belonged  to  no  one 
but  themselves,  and  which  never  had  been  in- 
closed in  a  human  soul ;  these  were  such  as 
had,  to  use  a  familiar  expression,  entered  one 
ear  and  passed  out  of  the  other.  They  had 
character,  for  the  musician  had  created  them 


96  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

with  a  meaning ;  but  not  having  been  granted 
as  yet  a  responsive  creation  in  the  mind  of 
Borne  other,  their  life  was  but  a  germ.  The 
musically  creating  and  the  musically  receiving 
mind  must  be,  as  it  were,  married,  else  the 
germs  are  never  recognized,  they  never  come 
into  the  children's  place.  Therefore,  the  stu- 
dent, looking  from  his  perch,  could  see  these 
crowding  upon  the  keys  of  the  piano,  and 
hovering  about  the  strings  of  the  violins  and 
violoncello.  Here  was  their  orphaned  home, 
and  if  they  wandered  it  was  to  return  again. 
Yet  they  were  ever  wandering,  although  they 
knew  that  there  was  no  hope,  until,  indeed,  new 
birth  should  be  granted  them,  and  thus  a  new 
chance  of  life.  The  air  of  the  room,  to  one 
whose  ear,  like  the  student's  now,  could  perceive 
it,  was  resonant  with  the  murmur  of  these 
sounds,  longing  for  life.  They  had  such  fine 
affinities  that  no  discords  possibly  could  occur, 
for  only  when  they  made  harmony  would  they 
touch  each  other,  otherwise  they  were  repelled 
and  nothing  could  bring  them  into  contact. 
Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  they  were  all  pitched 
in  one  melancholy  key.  They  moved  about  in 
their  various  characters,  yet  whether  subdued 
or  gay,  all  alike  expressed  the  one  thing  lack- 
ing to  them.  They  moved,  some  executing 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  97 

little  pirouettes ;  some  in  a  tender  fashion 
keeping  as  only  little  sounds  can  weep,  and 
glancing  across  their  track  came  joyous,  light- 
hearted  ones.  A  deep-mouthed  one  would 
start  from  the  rendezvous  on  the  violoncello 
and  go  rumbling  through  the  air,  meeting- 
some  fellow  from  the  lower  keys  of  the  piano, 
and  they  would  move  in  company ;  on  their 
way  they  would  fall  in  with  a  delicate,  g'ossa- 
mer-clad  sound  from  the  violin,  journeying 
with  one  like  a  silver  hell  in  note  from  the 
upper  keys  of  the  piano.  They  went  mostly 
in  pairs,  but  many  a  solitary  one  kept  his  own 
counsel  and  wandered  about  whither  he  would. 
The  demi-sounds,  or  those  that  sought, 
through  human  relationship,  to  ensconce  them- 
selves in  some  palpable  form,  could  see  all  this, 
but  they  could  render  no  help,  nor  indeed  would 
they  leave  their  tenements,  knowing  the  greater 
discomforts  awaiting  them  outside.  To  them 
the  unfortunate  ones,  shut  out  from  even  their 
imperfect  life,  were  like  the  spirits  who  cir- 
cled about  Dante  and  Virgil  in  their  gloomy 
visit.  It  ought  before  to  have  been  said  that 
in  the  number  of  the  demi-sounds  were  found 
those  that  had  been  sent  into  life  through  the 
mimic  instruments  that  made  up  the  orchestra 
of  the  Children  Symphony  which  had  been  per- 


08  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

formed  in  the  evening1.  Their  abode  was 
humble  indeed,  but  well  chosen,  for  most  of 
them  had  sought  faces  of  children  in  simple 
oil-prints ;  the  Zouave,  to  be  sure,  held  the  one 
whom  the  trumpet  had  sent  out,  while  one 
awaked  by  a  violin  in  the  same  piece,  had  en- 
tered a  cabinet  picture  by  Lambdiu  of  a  little 
girl  sewing.  All  of  these  more  perfect  sounds 
possessed  so  much  of  the  human  soul  that  they 
could  speak  indifferently,  making  use  of  the 
mouths  they  had  at  command.  Such  talking 
was  necessarily  very  imperfect,  and  to  such  re- 
fined perceptions  as  sounds  have  would  not 
have  been  altogether  agreeable ;  but  their  as- 
pirations after  humanity  overbore  all  objections, 
and  thus  quite  a  conversation  was  carried  on. 
A  neighbor  of  the  student's  first  addressed 
him  :  — 

"  Meseems,  that  I  have  met  you  before.  I 
am  from  a  sonata  of  Beethoven  myself." 

"  I  recollect  you,"  said  the  student,  "  though 
my  ears  are  rather  imperfect.  Ah !  if  I  but 
had  the  ears  which  I  once  possessed  I  should 
know  you  better.  For  myself  I  am  from  the 
Septuor  of  Beethoven  ; "  he  said  this  with  dif- 
ficulty, for  though  his  sound-nature  held  sway, 
his  soul-nature  made  feeble  protest,  thinking 
to  itself:  "  I  ain  denying  myself!  " 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  99 

"Then  we  are  connections,"  said  the  other, 
"  on  the  father's  side.  And  yet  it  seems  as  if 
I  had  other  and  better  knowledge  of  you.  I 
feel  irresistibly  drawn  toward  you." 

"  It  is  possible  that  we  have  met,"  replied 
the  student,  and  now  his  soul-nature  was  at 
least  passive.  "  Your  voice  has  something  in 
it  familiar  to  me."  Here  spoke  the  sound  that 
inhabited  the  portrait  in  oil  of  the  Professor's 
grandfather :  — 

"  I  am  here,"  said  he,  "  and  here  I  mean  to 
stay.  I  am  from  the  pitch  note  of  the  piano. 
I  was  received  this  evening  just  long  enough 
to  say  I  was  born  and  then  I  was  dismissed. 
So  I  have  come  here  where  I  can  see  every- 
thing that  goes  on  in  the  room." 

"  Hurrah !  hurrah  !  on  !  charge  !  " 

"What's  that?  what's  that?"  asked  the 
student.  "  I  know  that  voice." 

"  It's  only  the  Zouave,"  said  the  sound  that 
inhabited  the  portrait  of  Mozart.  "  He  is 
near  me.  I  can  see  him  with  the  great 
feather  behind  him.  He  has  broken  out  be- 
fore in  that  fashion.  Such  a  sound  has  taken 
possession  of  him.  I  am  from  the  tuning  of 
the  violin,  nor  can  I  expect  ever  again  to  find 
the  home  that  I  have  been  driven  from.  1 
have  a  plan.  This  has  been  an  unusual  even- 


100  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

ing1,  and,  for  a  wonder,  we  are  all  together 
still;  I  propose  that  we  now  celebrate  our 
good  fortune." 

"  That  pleases  me,"  said  the  sound  that  in- 
habited the  portrait  of  the  Professor's  grand- 
father, "  and  I  suggest  that  each  in  turn  tell 
his  story  or  sing  his  song." 

"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  on  !  charge  ! " 

"  Do  you  choose  to  be  quiet !  "  said  the  stu- 
dent's  neighbor.  "  Have  you  no  manners  ? 
That  was  a  good  suggestion.  Let  us  take 
turns  and  let  the  sound  that  proposed  it,  be- 
ing no  doubt  the  oldest,  preside  and  call  on 
each  in  his  place."  This  was  agreed  upon,  and 
the  sound  that  inhabited  the  portrait  of  the 
Professor's  grandfather,  commenced  by  saying 
that  he  had  no  story  to  tell.  He  would  have 
no  objections  to  giving  his  autobiography  but 
his  life  had  been  very  uneventful.  He  could 
only  say  that  he  had  tried  to  live  at  peace  with 
all ;  his  lot  was  humble  though  he  came  of 
good  family. 

When  the  student  heard  this  he  knew  not 
what  to  think.  His  soul-nature,  feebly  as  it 
asserted  itself,  yet  bore  witness  to  a  recollec- 
tion of  this  same  story  which  it  had  some  time 
framed.  If  it  could  it  would  have  laughed  at 
the  coincidence.  The  sound  that  dwelt  in  th« 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  101 

portrait  of  Mozart  was  now  called  upon  and 
thus  spoke :  — 

"  There  was  a  child  that  was  a  dwarf.  His 
father  had  cast  him  aside  hut  his  mother  loved 
him  still.  He  was  the  first-born  and  had  his 
father's  face,  hut  most  his  mother's.  Then  fol- 
lowed brothers  and  sisters.  He  never  grew, 
but  they  became  beautiful  youths  and  maidens, 
and  he  was  their  servant.  No  one  noticed 
him  except  for  his  oddness  of  appearance,  but 
all  praised  his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  rightly, 
for  they  were  indeed  beautiful ;  and  the  little 
dwarf  was  as  pleased  as  if  he  himself  had  been 
praised.  He  was  a  good  servant,  but  no  one 
loved  him  or  cared  for  him  except  his  mother. 
His  brothers  and  sisters  would  never  call  him 
brother,  yet  he  was  happy." 

If  the  student  before  was  astonished  at  the 
coincidence  between  the  words  spoken  and 
some  past  thought  or  experience  of  his  own, 
now  he  was  doubly  amazed  and  his  soul-nature, 
rendered  curious,  was  excited  so  far  as  its  nar- 
row limits  allowed,  for  still  his  sound-nature 
prevailed.  He  said  nothing,  however,  and  in 
its  turn  spoke  a  sound  that  occupied  a  copy  of 
Palmer's  marble  Spring.  It  announced  itself 
&s  from  one  of  Mendelssohn's  songs  without 
words  and  it  did  nothing  but  breathe,  yet  so 


102  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

Bweet  was  the  breath  of  this  sound  that  each 
heard  for  itself  a  separate  song  perfectly  dis- 
tinct, and  so  all  were  satisfied.  The  student 
also  heard  one,  and  this  also  was  to  him  as  au 
old  melody. 

This  is  what  the  sound  that  dwelt  in  the 
image  of  the  Zouave  said,  even  before  it  was 
called  upon  :  — 

"  Hurrah !  the  bar  of  steel  is  dull  in  the 
sun,  but  the  armorer  pounds  it  and  shapes  it, 
sharpens  it,  makes  it  to  shine.  Now  'tis  a 
sword !  how  it  gleams  in  the  sun  with  its  edge 
so  keen  !  what  shall  it  cut  ? 

"  The  youth  and  the  maiden  part  at  the 
garden-gate  ;  she  with  tears  but  he  with  joy ; 
the  sword  is  his.  O  brave  sword !  has  it  cut 
these  two  ?  wait  and  see. 

"  Then  comes  the  battle.  How  the  sword 
fares !  how  the  enemy  fall !  0  dashing  youth 
with  the  brave,  bright  sword !  all  the  day  long 
he  fights  and  the  good  sword  glistens. 

"  Then  comes  sunset  on  the  battle-field  and 
at  the  garden-gate.  Hurrah !  hurrah !  on ! 
charge !  " 

"  That  is  not  well,"  said  the  presiding  sound. 
"  I  thought  we  should  have  heard  the  rest,  but 
you  began  all  over  again." 

"  Is  not  our  turn  come  ?  "  asked  the  chil- 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  103 

dren-sounds,  and  then  they  told  amusing 
stories  :  one  of  how  he  was  overturned  in  a 
sleigh  ;  another  of  going  bird's  nesting ;  an- 
other of  evening  sports,  and  so  on.  There  was 
great  glee  over  this  part,  but  when  they  were 
through,  the  presiding  sound  called  upon  the 
student's  neighbor  that  had  first  accosted  him, 
and  he  spoke  in  this  wise  :  - 

"The  snow  is  on  the  ground.  The  sky 
above  is  of  burnished  steel,  set  with  golden 
stars.  My  breath  stands  stiff  in  the  mid  air. 
There  is  no  voice,  for  the  earth  is  dead  and  the 
shroud  is  on  it.  The  snow  is  so  deep  that  the 
grave-stones  cannot  be  seen  in  the  city  of  the 
dead.  What  way  of  escape  is  there?  The 
sky  is  shut  tight  round  the  earth.  If  we  dig 
through  the  snow  the  ground  is  like  stone. 
Shall  we  climb  the  steel  firmament  ?  Let  us 
try ;  perchance  we  may  gain  the  stars.  But 
there  is  nothing  there.  Everything  is  in  us. 
The  earth  is  stone  dead  and  the  sky  is  metal. 
Let  it  be  so.  Is  there  nothing  but  winter?  " 

"  That  is  no  story  at  all,"  said  the  presiding 
sound,  "  and  it  is  no  song,  and  not  at  all  appro- 
priate. Now  let  us  hear  what  you  have  to  say, 
and  you  shall  be  the  last."  And  he  turned 
and  nodded  to  the  sound  that  dwelt  in  the 
picture  of  the  little  girl  sowing.  "  You  are  to 


10  A  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

be  the  last  that  we  will  hear,  for  we  cannot 
be  telling  stories  to  each  other  and  singing 
songs  all  night.  We  must  stop  somewhere, 
else  we  may  get  out  of  tune,  and  that  is  the 
worst  thing  that  could  happen  to  any  sound." 
This  is  what  the  last  and  least  sound  sang :  — 

The  gaunt  trees  stand 

Throughout  the  land, 
And  the  leaves  lie  dead  at  their  feet: 

The  violets'  eyes 

Are  closed  likewise, 
And  the  buttercups'  lips  so  sweet. 

'Tis  early  spring  ; 

The  woodlands  ring 
With  the  shouts  of  children  at  play ; 

They  hunt  the  flowers, 

And  scatter  showers 
Of  forest  leaves  by  the  way. 

But  death-like  sleep 

The  violets  keep, 
*Neath  the  forest  leaves  stiff  and  dry ; 

Yet  still  the  trees, 

The  sport  of  the  breeze, 
Look  patiently  up  to  the  sky. 

Then  Heaven  descends, 

And  new  life  lends 
To  the  gaunt  and  lonely  trees ; 

And  at  their  feet 

Are  the  violets  sweet,  — 
Their  blue  eyes  —  our  hearts'-ease. 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  105 

The  student,  astonished  at  the  coincidence 
of  the  other  stories  with  fancies  which  he  him- 
self had  at  some  time  possessed,  was  more 
amazed,  even  to  agitation,  upon  hearing  this 
little  song.  His  memory,  which  had  heeu  ex- 
cited almost  to  a  human  state,  assured  him 
that  the  very  words  had  been  composed  by  him 
that  evening,  during  the  performance  of  one  of 
the  pieces.  His  mind,  affected  by  all  these 
thoughts,  was  no  longer  passive  ;  it  struggled 
with  his  sound-nature,  and  a  sad  and  perplex- 
ing contest  arose.  His  agitation  must  have 
been  apparent,  for  his  neighbor,  who  had  fre- 
quently addressed  him,  now  spoke  :  — 

"  One  has  been  omitted,  and  one,  too,  I  am 
convinced,  of  no  ordinary  nature.  This  sound 
has  been  housed  near  me  ;  he  is  a  distant  con- 
nection, I  find,  and  there  is  something  peculiar 
about  his  nature  which  makes  me  desire  to 
know  more."  At  this  the  student-sound  could 
no  longer  restrain  himself,  and  more  to  him- 
self than  to  the  rest,  gave  expression  to  his 
disturbed  consciousness :  — 

"  I  am,"  he  said,  "  from  the  Septuor  of  Bee- 
thoven, and  if  I  would,  could  put  my  music  into 
words ;  but  I  am  sadly  perplexed  since  I  feel 
that  my  life  is  somewhat  more  varied  and  com- 
pleter  than  I  could  thus  sing.  Whatever  I  have 


106  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

heard  to-night  in  this  little  gathering  has  been 
old  and  well  known  to  me.  It  is  as  if  I  had 
been  in  turn  each  who  has  spoken  or  snug.  I 
know  not  why,  I  ana  not  happy.  I  feel  or- 
phaned ;  something  is  lacking."  Thus  musing, 
alternately  his  sound-nature  and  soul-nature 
was  uppermost.  He  thought  to  himself,  "  If 
I  might  but  touch  the  strings  of  the  violin 
from  which  I  came,  I  think  I  should  be  satis- 
fied." So  he  slipped  out  of  the  figure  in  the 
Death-bed  of  Calvin  which  he  had  occupied  — • 
the  syndic  with  the  handsome  leg  —  and  es- 
sayed to  reach  the  violin.  But  there  was 
movement  elsewhere  also.  The  various  sounds 
that  had  contributed  to  the  evening's  merry- 
making, upon  hearing  the  student's  voice, 
recognized,  as  his  neighbor  from  the  first  had 
done,  a  presence  toward  which  they  were 
drawn.  His  words  had  excited  in  each  the 
same  longing,  for  all  felt,  even  though  faintly, 
that  the  humanity  which  it  was  their  highest 
aspiration  again  to  enter,  was  present  with 
them,  although  in  a  less  positive  and  attractive 
form  than  usual.  It  was  in  the  student's 
brain,  in  fact,  that  each  had  received  that  per- 
fection of  life  which  only  thus  is  granted  tc 
sounds;  the  words  which  they  uttered  were 
the  product  of  that  union  between  the  music 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  107 

giver's  aim  the  music  receiver's  mind ;  and  it 
was  the  dim  recollection  of  having  given  birth 
to  these  fancies  that  now  so  perplexed  the  hap- 
less student-sound.  He,  once  deprived  of  even 
the  limited  corporeity  afforded  by  the  figure  in 
the  picture,  was  reduced  to  a  pitiable  state  ; 
as  a  sound,  he  was  in  part  drawn  toward  the 
violin,  in  part,  if  one  might  so  say,  drawn  into 
the  soul  with  which  it  formed  a  union ;  as  a 
soul,  craving  a  union  with  its  body,  he  was  at- 
tracted not  only  to  the  habitation  he  had  just 
left,  but  also  —  as  if  it  were  a  great  way  off  — 
to  the  more  perfect  one  which  preceded.  Now, 
moreover,  was  he  aware  of  the  congregation 
of  sounds  vainly  seeking  him.  The  rest  were 
indeed  moving  hither  and  thither,  all  in  search 
of  the  human  presei>ce,  faintly  shadowed  to 
them,  assuredly  recognized  as  the  complement 
of  their  life,  but  inexplicably  vagrant  and  unat- 
tainable. His  sound-nature  was  too  control- 
ling to  admit  of  his  being  revealed  to  them,  and 
was  itself  filled  with  a  longing  to  enter  into  its 
own  alter  ego,  the  soul-nature  :  that  was  de- 
graded and  almost  powerless,  because  it  had 
disengaged  itself  from  its  natural  tenement. 
But  struggling  is  so  much  opposed  to  the 
nature  of  sound,  which  is  passive,  that  his 
soul  grew  more  and  more  conscious  of  its 


108  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

powers ;   the  memory  grew  stronger,  and  he 
thought :  — 

"  How  insufficient  my  abode  in  the  figure  of 
the  picture  was.  I  was  indeed  a  sound  as  I  now 
am,  but  I  could  see  little  and  hear  little.  I  had 
fine  affinities,  it  is  true,  with  other  sounds,  yet 
they  lacked  much  that  I  have  possessed.  It 
was  like  a  dream  and  seemed  unreal.  But  I 
can  remember  how  once  — it  was  long  ago  —  I 
had  larger  life.  I  lived  in  a  student.  I  was 
not  thus  beaten  about,  homeless  and  unsatis- 
fied. I  was  housed  in  a  noble  body  that  had 
sensibility  and  fineness  of  vision,  and  hearing 
and  scent.  O,  that  I  might  once  more  be  in 
my  old  home  !  " 

This  wish  also  was  energetic ;  the  sound 
shrank  to  its  proportional  measure  while  the 
soul  became  enlarged  and  was  borne  by  its  fer- 
vent wish  toward  its  old  seat.  As  it  passed 
out,  it  was  aware,  by  its  still  musical  affinity, 
of  the  aspiration  ever  growing  fainter  to  it, 
though  in  reality  more  earnest,  of  the  congre- 
gation of  sounds  within  praying  to  be  allowed 
to  accompany  it.  Fragments  of  melodies  en- 
tered for  a  moment  the  soul,  but  were  not  re- 
tained. Doubtless  these  followed  still,  long 
after  it  was  conscious  of  their  presence.  It- 
self, as  before,  found  its  way  through  the  key 


THE  MUSIC  PARTY.  109 

hole,  and  entered  as  mysteriously  as  if  had  left 
the  body  of  the  student,  which  was  standing 
upright  on  the  door-step,  the  right  hand  but- 
toning the  upper  button  of  the  great-coat, 
while  the  head  was  turned  upward  toward  the 
moon. 

Immediately  upon  the  entry  of  the  soul,  the 
hand  finished  its  task,  and  the  head  was  bent 
down.  The  student  walked  cautiously  down 
the  steps.  "  That  air  runs  in  my  head  still," 
said  he,  and  he  whistled  it.  "  That  is  better," 
thought  the  sound,  as  well  as  it  could  think : 
"  it  is  like  a  new  creation." 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART. 

IT  has  often  beeii  observed  that  a  child  of 
great  parts  proves  in  the  end  to  be  a  man  of 
only  ordinary  capacity,  and  it  has  become  com- 
mon to  look  with  distrust  upon  precocious  chil- 
dren, as  likely  to  disappoint  their  guardians 
and  friends,  either  by  not  growing  up  at  all,  or 
by  leaving  behind  with  their  youth  all  that 
made  them  remarkable.  But  Mozart  the  mu- 
sician was  plainly  an  exception  to  these  ex- 
amples ;  for  he  not  only  had  a  wonderful 
genius  in  music  when  a  mere  child,  so  that  he 
bore  comparison  with  masters  in  the  art,  but 
his  genius  never  forsook  him,  expanding  with 
his  years,  until  he  stood  the  most  eminent  of 
musical  artists  of  his  time,  and  only  to  be 
mentioned  now  in  company  with  the  truly 
great  men  whose  works  give  us  the  law  in 
musical  matters. 

His  father,  Leopold  Mozart,  was  a  musician 
who  stood  high  in  the  employ  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Salzburg,  a  town  lying  between 
Munich  and  Vienna.  He  was  an  educated 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.        Ill 

man,  but  being  forced  to  gain  a  livelihood 
through  the  practice  of  music,  he  became, 
like  most  of  that  profession  in  those  days, 
dependent  upon  the  favor  of  some  person  of 
distinction,  either  in  church  or  state.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  was  in  the  service  of  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  occupied  the  position  of  Hof-Kap- 
ellmeister,  conductor  of  the  court  music.  He 
had  two  children,  Wolfgang,  and  Maria  Anna, 
or  Nannerl,  as  she  was  called,  who  was  four  or 
five  years  older.  When  Nannerl  was  seven 
years  old  her  father  began  to  teach  her  music 
upon  the  clavier,  an  instrument  of  which  the 
piano-forte  of  the  present  day  is  an  improved 
form.  She  learned  very  rapidly,  and  showed  a 
remarkable  genius  for  reading  and  executing 
music.  But  while  she  was  taking  her  lessons, 
there  appeared  a  greater,  in  her  little  brother 
Wolfgang,  then  not  more  than  three  years  old, 
who  stood  by  her,  and  would  himself  strike 
the  keys,  but  never,  like  most  children,  in 
sport,  striking  at  hap-hazard,  and  only  pound- 
ing to  bring  some  sound  out ;  for  he  was 
pained  by  discords,  and  would  only  strike  har- 
moniously. Indeed,  scarcely  had  he  begun  to 
express  himself  like  other  intelligent  children, 
Dy  words  and  meaning  actions,  before  he 
nhowed  that  he  had  much  music  in  him  that 


112  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

would  come  out.  He  would  catch  quickly 
what  was  played  to  him,  and  play  it  correctly 
himself ;  he  would  even  invent  little  pieces, 
which  he  played  ;  and  his  very  sports  were  set 
to  music,  for  when  he  was  playing  with  his 
favorite,  a  trumpeter  in  his  father's  baud,  he 
would  insist  that  the  playthings  should  be 
carried  from  one  room  to  another  to  the  sound 
of  music.  He  was  an  affectionate  little  fellow, 
full  of  tenderness,  and  eager  to  be  loved ;  so 
that  he  would  jump  up  from  his  sports  and  run 
to  those  about  him,  asking  if  they  really  loved 
him ;  if  they  laughed  and  teased  him  by  say- 
ing No,  his  eyes  would  fill  with  tears. 

There  was  one  other  study  besides  music 
which  took  hold  of  him,  and  that  was  arith- 
metic. The  floors,  and  walls,  and  chairs,  and 
tables  were  covered  with  figures  which  the  im- 
pulsive little  scholar  was  using ;  and  this  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  though  music  seems 
to  us  often  such  a  matter  of  feeling,  yet  we 
know  that  the  science  of  music  is  very  exact, 
and  has  much  to  do  with  numbers,  as  any  one 
may  see  who  notices  such  expressions  as  thirds, 
consecutive  fifths,  and  the  like. 

As  little  Wolfgang  grew,  his  father  and  all 
looked  on  in  wonder.  It  seemed  as  if  they 
eould  teach  him  nothing,  for  whatever  thet 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.         113 

told  him  of  music,  that  he  seemed  to  know 
already.  Nevertheless  the  boy  studied  hard, 
practicing1  and  composing,  and  led  a  happy 
life  between  his  clavier,  his  figures,  and  his 
childish  plays  ;  they  all  seemed  to  be  the  same 
thing.  When  he  was  seated  at  the  instru- 
ment he  was  like  one  in  sport,  and  when  he 
was  busy  with  his  games  he  was  like  one  in 
earnest,  so  natural  and  fresh  was  his  life.  At 
length,  when  he  was  six  years  old  and  Nannerl 
eleven,  his  father,  who  had  for  many  months 
given  up  teaching  music  to  others  that  he 
might  educate  his  children,  determined  to 
take  a  journey  with  them,  and  show  the  world 
how  wonderful  they  were,  especially  his  little 
Wolfgang.  At  that  time  a  musician,  if  he 
would  prosper,  must  attach  himself  to  some 
prince,  or  other  person  of  distinction ;  and  if 
he  was  dissatisfied  with  his  place,  he  must 
travel  and  seek  some  other  patron.  Mozart, 
the  father,  was  not  contented  at  Salzburg,  and 
he  wished  to  try  his  fortunes  elsewhere;  he 
wished  also  by  travel  to  teach  the  children 
many  things,  and  to  bring  them  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  such  persons  as  would  be  likely  to 
notice  and  help  them.  They  took  short  jour 
ueys  first,  to  Munich  and  Vienna,  and  encour- 
aged by  the  great  attention  which  they  re- 


114  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

seived,  they  set  out  on  a  tour  which  occupied 
them  three  years,  during  which  they  visited 
Paris  and  London,  and  travelled  through  Ger- 
many, Holland,  France,  and  Switzerland,  the 
father  all  the  while  carefully  educating  his 
children.  On  this  tour  the  children  per- 
formed wherever  there  was  a  court,  —  Wolf- 
gang playing  the  clavier,  the  organ,  and  the 
violin ;  singing,  playing,  and  composing  ex- 
tempore ;  and  indeed,  doing  at  eight  or  nine 
years,  all  the  various  things  which  are  done  by 
educated  musicians. 

Everybody  was  astonished  at  the  child,  and 
every  one  loved  him ;  for  little  Wolfgang,  while 
playing  the  most  difficult  music,  was  only  do- 
ing what  it  was  easy  and  natural  for  him  to 
do,  and  he  would  go  right  from  his  music  to 
his  sports  as  if  they  were  both  alike  to  him. 
When  he  was  in  England,  he  was  playing  be- 
fore a  gentleman  who  tells  how  "  While  play- 
ing to  me,  a  favorite  cat  came  in,  on  which  he 
left  his  harpsichord,  nor  could  we  bring  him 
back  for  a  considerable  time.  He  would  also 
run  about  the  room  with  a  stick  between  his 
legs  by  way  of  horse."  Wherever  they  went 
they  were  treated  with  attention,  and  presents 
were  given  them,  after  the  fashion  of  the  day 
not  only  in  money,  but  in  the  shape  of  snuff- 
boxes, watches,  and  elegant  clothes. 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.         115 

When  they  were  once  more  in  Salzburg,  the 
troubles  which  always  gather  about  reputation, 
began  to  arise.  The  Archbishop,  who  was 
wont  to  think  of  the  musicians  as  his  servants, 
was  annoyed  that  they  should  be  receiving 
honor  and  renown  of  which  he  had  small 
share,  and  resolved  that  they  should  be  still 
more  dependent  upon  him  ;  and  the  other 
musicians  began  to  be  filled  with  a  mean  jeal- 
ousy of  this  wonderful  boy,  and  they  did  all 
they  could  to  make  him  seem  less  remarkable. 
They  kept  out  of  his  way  and  refused  to  hear 
him  play,  in  order  that,  when  they  were  asked 
about  him,  they  might  say,  "  O,  we  have 
never  heard  him ;  we  do  not  wish  to  encour- 
age a  mountebank,"  knowing  very  well  that 
they  could  not  thus  speak  of  him  after  hear- 
ing him  ;  but  the  father  laid  a  trap  for  one  of 
them. 

"  I  had  persuaded  some  one,  quietly,"  he 
says,  "  to  give  us  intelligence  when  he  would 
be  present,  and  our  friend  was  to  bring  this 
person  an  extraordinary  difficult  concerto, 
which  could  be  placed  before  little  Wolfgang. 
We  came  together,  and  he  had  the  opportunity 
Df  hearing  his  concerto  played  by  Wolfgang,  as 
\f  he  knew  it  by  heart.  The  astonishment  of 
this  composer  and  clavier-player,  and  the  ex- 


116  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

pressions  of  admiration  he  used,  confirmed  all 
that  I  have  stated  above.  He  ended  by  saying-, 
'  I  can  say  no  less,  as  an  honest  man,  than  that 
this  boy  is  the  greatest  man  in  the  world ;  it 
could  not  have  been  believed.' ' 

Still  Mozart  kept  on  studying-  and  compos- 
ing-, growing-  more  admirable  as  a  musician 
every  day,  and  keeping-,  too,  just  as  boyish  and 
full  of  life  and  merriment.  He  did  not  mind 
these  thing-s  as  his  father  did,  who  now  began 
to  lay  plans  for  Wolfgang,  that  he  might  be 
freed  from  the  necessity  of  living  always  at 
Salzburg.  The  two  took  a  journey  to  Italy, 
and  Wolfgang,  who  was  now  nearly  fifteen 
years  old,  gave  himself  up  to  the  life  about 
him ;  he  wrote  music,  he  heard  music,  he  vis- 
ited friends  who  covered  him  with  favors,  and 
in  the  midst  of  all  he  was  constantly  writing 
letters  home,  full  of  fun  and  merry  wisdom. 
At  Milan  his  first  opera,  "  Mithridates,"  was 
performed,  and  brought  the  most  triumphant 
applause.  It  was  church  music,  however, 
which  at  that  time  he  wrote  best  and  most 
freely. 

For  ten  years  now,  Mozart  continued  to  live 
*n  Salzburg,  and  to  make  journeys  thence,  with 
shifting  fortune,  but  always  pouring  out  his 
ivonderful  music,  and  suffering  no  trials  01 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.         117 

rexations  to  drive  him  from  freely  using  the 
gift  which  God  had  bestowed  upon  him.  But 
at  twenty-five  he  was  called  to  Munich  to  com- 
pose an  opera,  and  to  this  he  gave  himself 
heart  and  soul.  It  was  "  Idomeneus.  King  of 
Crete,"  and  Mozart,  in  the  strength  of  his 
young  manhood,  produced  in  this  opera  some- 
thing new ;  for  though  other  operas  had  been 
written  before  it,  this,  written  in  a  few  weeks, 
is  the  "  basis  of  all  the  music  of  our  day." 
It  brought  him  friends,  and  filled  the  young 
composer  with  high  hope  of  a  future  career, 
unchecked  by  the  petty  tyranny  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Salzburg.  "  I  should  rejoice,"  he 
writes  to  his  father  at  this  time,  "  were  I  to 
be  told  that  my  services  were  no  longer  re- 
quired ;  for  with  the  great  patronage  that  I 
have  here,  both  my  present  and  future  circum- 
stances would  be  secure,  death  excepted,  which 
no  one  can  guard  against,  though  no  great 
misfortune  to  a  single  man.  But  anything  in 
the  world  to  please  you.  It  would  be  less  try- 
ing to  me  if  I  could  only  occasionally  escape 
from  time  to  time,  just  to  draw  my  breath. 
You  know  how  difficult  it  was  to  get  away  on 
this  occasion  ;  and  without  some  very  urgent 
«ause,  there  would  not  be  the  faintest  hope  of 
such  a  thing.  It  is  enough  tc  make  one  weep 
to  think  of  it,  so  I  say  no  more." 


118  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

His  father  and  Nannerl  visited  Munich  to 
hear  the  opera.  In  the  midst  of  festivities 
came  a  command  from  the  Archbishop  for 
Mozart  to  accompany  his  household  to  Vienna, 
for  the  prelate  wished  to  appear  in  great  pomp 
in  the  Imperial  city.  Mozart  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons, and  thenceforth  his  life  was  led  there, 
for  he  never  returned  to  Salzburg  to  live.  It 
gives  an  idea  of  the  dependent  life  which  a 
musician  led,  though  he  were  a  man  of  divine 
genius,  when  we  read  in  one  of  Mozart's  let- 
ters, written  just  after  reaching  Vienna  :  "  Our 
party  consists  of  the  two  valets,  the  comp- 
troller, Herr  Zetti,  the  confectioner,  the  two 
cooks,  Cecarelli,  Brunetti,  and  my  insignificant 
self.  N.  B.  —  The  two  valets  sit  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  I  have,  at  all  events,  the  honor 
to  be  placed  above  the  cooks  ;  I  almost  believe 
I  am  back  in  Salzburg  !  At  table  all  kinds  of 
coarse,  silly  joking  go  on  ;  but  no  one  jokes 
with  me,  for  I  never  say  a  word,  or,  if  I  am 
obliged  to  speak,  I  do  so  with  the  utmost  grav- 
ity, and  when  I  have  dined  I  go  away."  To 
be  reckoned  by  the  Archbishop  as  a  fit  com- 
panion for  his  valets  and  cooks  !  But  Mozart 
shows  in  his  words  that  though  he  sat  at  table 
with  them  he  would  not  make  himself  their 
eomrade.  It  was  evident  that  the  Archbishop 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.         119 

sousulted  only  his  own  vanity,  and  Mozart  very 
shortly  determined  to  cut  loose  from  the  ser- 
vice. To  do  this  was  hard,  for  it  was  also  to 
disobey  his  father,  who  trembled  before  the 
Archbishop's  power.  Mozart  had  ever  been  a 
boy  in  his  filial  obedience,  and  now  when  he 
took  this  step  contrary  to  his  father's  wishes, 
but  impelled  by  the  keenest  sense  of  honor  and 
self-respect,  he  grew,  as  we  think,  suddenly  a 
man.  He  seemed  to  his  friends  to  be  plung- 
ing into  ruin,  but  in  reality  he  was  now  just 
entering  upon  his  great  career.  He  married 
shortly  after,  and  threw  himself  for  support  on 
teaching  and  composition. 

Now  succeeded  ten  years  of  busy  life.  All 
varieties  of  musical  compositions  came  thick 
and  fast  from  his  pen.  The  most  dramatic  of 
musical  romances,  —  "  Don  Giovanni,"  that  fan- 
ciful and  sweet  play,  "  The  Magic  Flute,"  and 
his  symphonies  that  flow  like  changing  streams 
through  woods  and  sunlit  fields,  —  were  pro- 
ducts of  this  period.  His  life  was  brimming 
with  music  and  social  pleasure.  Care  and 
anxiety  indeed  came  upon  him ;  with  manhood 
he  left  oif  some  of  his  youthful  exuberance  of 
spirit,  and  until  the  end  he  seemed  always  at 
odds  with  riches,  never  free  from  petty  embar- 
rassment, but  more  than  once  there  is  an  April 


120  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

scene  of  sun  and  rain  chasing  one  another  in 
his  familiar  letters.  Listen  to  him  as  he  adds 
a  postscript  to  a  letter  to  his  absent  wife : 
"  While  writing  the  last  page,  many  a  tear  has 
fallen  on  it.  But  now  let  us  be  merry.  Look  ! 
Swarms  of  kisses  are  flying  about  —  quick! 
catch  some !  I  have  caught  three,  and  de- 
licious they  are Adieu,  my  dearest, 

sweetest  wife  !  Be  careful  of  your  health,  and 
do  not  go  into  the  town  on  foot.  Write  to  me 
how  you  like  your  new  quarters.  Adieu  !  I 
send  you  a  million  kisses  !  "  And  again  in  an- 
other postscript,  "  Kiss  Sophie  for  me.  To 
Silsmag  (his  little  boy)  I  send  two  good  fillips 
on  the  nose,  and  a  hearty  pull  at  his  hair.  A 
thousand  compliments  to  Stoll.  Adieu  !  '  The 
hour  strikes !  Farewell !  We  shall  meet 
again  ! ' 

These  words  were  the  last  written  by  him  j 
they  are  quoted  from  the  "  Magic  Flute,"  on 
which  he  was  then  engaged.  They  intimate 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  for  the  shadow 
of  death  was  creeping  over  him.  Some  time 
before,  a  tall  man,  clad  in  sombre  gray,  had 
called  upon  him  to  inquire  whether  he  would 
undertake  to  write  a  Requiem,  but  did  not 
name  the  person  who  ordered  it.  Mozart  ac- 
cepted tho  order,  and  set  about  it  eagerly;  bu< 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.         121 

Defore  finishing  it,  was  forced  to  visit  Prague. 
Just  as  he  was  setting  out,  the  mysterious  man 
in  gray  appeared  suddenly  by  the  carriage  to 
demand  the  "  Requiem."  There  was  some- 
thing singular  about  his  manner,  and  that, 
taken  with  the  subject  —  a  funeral  piece  — 
took  strong  hold  of  Mozart,  and  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  task.  We  know  now  that 
all  the  mystery  was  due  to  the  wish  of  a  cer- 
tain count  to  get  possession  of  this  "Re- 
quiem," and  to  pass  himself  off  as  the  com- 
poser. But  Mozart  was  conscious  of  an  ebb 
in  his  life.  Long  before  others  would  believe 
it,  and  before  any  visible  sign  was  seen  beyond 
a  weariness  under  the  cares  and  labors  imposed 
upon  him,  he  saw  the  approaching  end,  and 
declared  that  he  was  writing  this  "  Requiem  " 
for  his  own  funeral.  Gradually  his  strength 
failed,  as  he  worked  upon  it,  and  he  could  not 
leave  the  house.  Then  he  could  not  leave  his 
bed ;  but  still  he  labored,  hoping  to  complete  it 
as  a  final  account  of  his  life ;  and  so  he  did  in 
every  material  point.  "  In  it,"  says  his  biog- 
rapher, "  he  expressed,  in  never-dying  power- 
ful tones,  his  consciousness  of  guilt,  and  of 
reconciliation  with  Heaven.  In  the  innermost 
depths  of  his  heart  he  was  conscious  of  his 
human  frailty,  and  expressed  tne  deep  peni- 


122  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

tence  of  his  heart  in  chords  such  as  no  mortal 
ear  had  ever  yet  heard.  It  was  also  a  great 
consolation  to  him  to  remember  that  the  Lord, 
to  whom  he  had  drawn  near  in  humble  and 
child-like  faith,  had  suifered  and  died  for  him, 
and  would  look  on  him  in  love  and  compassion. 
The  day  before  his  death,  he  desired  the  score 
to  be  brought  to  him  in  bed  (it  was  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon),  and  sang  his  part ;  others 
took  the  soprano,  tenor,  and  bass.  They  had 
got  through  the  various  parts,  to  the  first  bars 
of  the  Lacrimosa,  when  Mozart  suddenly  burst 
into  tears,  and  laid  aside  the  score.  The  deli- 
cate organs  of  his  bodily  frame  wrere  already 
fast  decaying,  so  that  even  his  cherished  canary 
was  obliged  to  be  taken  out  of  the  room,  be- 
cause the  invalid  could  no  longer  bear  its  sing- 
ing." 

His  wife's  sister  has  written  of  his  dying 
days  :  "  The  last  movement  of  his  life  was  an 
endeavor  to  indicate  where  the  kettle-drums 
should  be  used  in  his  '  Requiem.'  I  think  I 
still  hear  the  sound."  Another  messenger 
than  the  tall  man  in  gray  had  come,  even 
Death,  and  so  Mozart  was  borne  away  in  his 
thirty-fifth  year.  But  his  life  on  earth  was 
finished.  There  remain  many  letters  by  him- 
^elf  and  others,  from  which  we  know  some- 


WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART.          123 

thing  of  his  daily  life ;  above  all,  we  still  hear 
his  music  sounding  forth.  It  can  never  die. 
He  moved  through  the  mean  things  of  life  like 
a  divine  being.  He  obeyed  the  voice  from  on 
high  which  perpetually  bade  him  sing !  He 
was  music  itself,  ever  youthful,  —  full  of  heav- 
enly harmony. 


THE  RETURN  OF  ORPHEUS. 

WHEN  the  world  was  young  Orpheus  sang 
to  it,  and  when  the  world  grew  old,  Orpheus 
came  again  and  sang  a  second  time.  At  the 
first  visit  all  were  so  enchanted  that  the  rocks 
and  trees  could  not  sit  still,  but  jumped  up 
and  danced  about  to  the  sound  of  the  music. 
That  was  when  the  world  was  young  and  fool- 
ish ;  no  one  was  looking  on  and  all  did  as  they 
pleased.  When  the  world  grew  old,  it  was 
wiser  and  did  nothing  without  thinking  about 
it,  and  asking  what  its  ancestors  would  have 
thought,  what  its  posterity  was  going  to  think. 

Now  it  was  whispered  about  that  Orpheus 
was  to  revisit  the  world.  The  world  had  not 
forgotten  his  first  coming  ;  the  Evergreens 
took  care  of  that.  They  stood  sprinkled  in  the 
forest  and  though  the  rest  slept,  they  kept 
awake,  —  they  never  forgot.  All  that  had  hap- 
pened was  intrusted  to  them  to  remember. 
Each  year  in  the  spring,  they  told  of  Orpheus' 
visit,  and  at  last,  one  spring,  they  added  :  "  He 
is  now  to  come  again,  for  when  he  left  us  he 


THE  RETURN  OF  ORPHEUS.  125 

promised  to  return  when  the  blood  of  heroes 
should  make  the  cold  world  warm  enough  for 
his  footsteps." 

The  rocks,  the  trees,  the  bushes,  all  heard 
this  and  expected  Orpheus,  but  they  were  not 
quite  certain  how  they  ought  to  behave. 
"  When  the  world  was  young,"  they  said, 
"  our  ancestors  danced,  very  likely,  but  the 
question  is  —  are  we  to  dance  ?  A  great  deal 
has  happened  since  those  days ;  all  sorts  of 
fiddlers  have  been  fiddling,  singers  have  been 
singing,  there  has  been  no  general  dance,  one 
or  two  may  have  skipped  a  little,  but  they 
make  no  rule  ;  if  reports  are  correct,  they 
were  not  always  very  reputable."  This  was  the 
common  talk,  but  the  matter  was  so  interest- 
ing that  there  were  many  separate  opinions. 

"  What  think  you,  neighbor  ?  "  asked  the 
Elm  of  the  Oak.  "  Shall  we  dance  ?  " 

"  Shall  we  stand  on  our  heads  ?  "  growled 
the  Oak ;  "  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  myself 
than  to  think  I  shall  engage  in  such  foolery," 
and  he  thrust  his  knobby  arms  out  and  dug 
himself  deeper  into  the  earth,  for  he  meant  to 
get  such  a  hold  and  make  such  a  solid  stand 
that  he  never  should  be  shaken. 

"  I  see  nothing  to  dance  for,"  said  the  Wil- 
low; "I  can't  dry  my  tears  so  suddenly  for 


126  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

every  strolling-  player  that  chooses  to  pipe  for 
me." 

"  It  is  undignified  to  dance,"  said  the  Pop- 
lar. "  How  I  should  look  !  " 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  dance  pretty  well," 
said  the  Elm ;  "  it  is  graceful  exercise,  but  then 
I  don't  care  about  it  if  the  rest  do  not  dance. 
I  should  not  wish  to  be  conspicuous." 

The  Rocks  said  they  would  dance  ;  they  only 
asked  that  Orpheus  should  play  loud  enough 
to  move  them,  and  that  he  should  play  exactly 
as  he  did  when  he  came  before.  They  were 
perfectly  willing  to  dance,  but  they  must  insist 
on  knowing  the  tune.  The  Evergreens  said 
they  should  dance,  as  a  matter  of  course ;  it 
would  be  ridiculous  not  to ;  they  were  ready, 
only  let  him  come  and  strike  up  —  they  would 
lead  off. 

Orpheus  came  with  his  lyre  and  sang.  The 
Evergreens  immediately  began  to  dance,  but 
they  were  out  of  time  from  beginning  to  end. 
It  was  not  the  music  that  made  them  dance ; 
in  fact,  they  led  off  before  Orpheus  had  uttered 
a  note.  When  the  Elm  saw  them  she  also  be- 
gan to  dance  quite  gracefully,  though  she  did 
not  listen  much  to  the  music.  But  she  saw 
the  Oak  clinching  his  knobby  fists  at  Orpheus 
and  she  stopped,  pretending  that  she  had  on  It 


THE  RETURN  OF  ORPHEUS.  127 

been  practicing  some  steps  by  herself,  which 
was  true.  The  Willow  had  her  griefs,  and  she 
said,  "  3Tis  better  to  sigh  than  be  dancing." 
The  Poplar  cried,  "  Hem  !  "  and  looked  serious ; 
he  was  not  quite  sure  about  this  dancing.  The 
Rocks  were  covered  with  lichens  hundreds  of 
years  old,  and  they  said,  — 

"This  is  very  different  music  from  what 
moved  our  ancestors.  We  know  about  that 
music ;  we  have  reduced  it  to  perfect  rules. 
Keep  to  the  rules  and  we  will  dance ;  not 
otherwise,"  and  they  sat  stiff. 

Orpheus  wept.  "  Will  no  one  listen  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  The  ground  is  wet  with  the  blood  of 
heroes,  and  I  sing  their  souls  into  life."  Once 
more  he  touched  his  lyre  and  sang  with  sweeter 
power.  There  was  a  stir  in  the  forest.  The 
shoots  that  had  lately  sprung  from  the  earth, 
miniature  trees,  having  the  perfect  structure 
folded  in  their  tiny  forms,  whirled  in  the  joy- 
ous dance.  The  rocks  that  peeped  from  the 
soil  joined  carefully  in  the  movement.  The 
earth  trembled  with  excitement.  Above  all 
sounded  the  clear  voice  of  Orpheus  singing  to 
his  lyre.  He  turned  away  from  the  old  and 
sang  to  the  new.  He  sang  and  the  world  grew 
young  again ;  the  young  shoots  sprang  up  and 
waved  their  branches ;  the  flowers  opened  their 


128  WHEN  MUSIC  IS  HEARD. 

cups,   and   the   sun   filled   them   with   golden 
light ;  the  #ir  was  fragrant  with  music. 

A  new  song  had  been  sung,  a  new  dance  had 
been  led,  and  when  all  was  at  the  height  Or- 
pheus fled;  but  the  world  was  young  again. 
Will  it  ever  be  different  ? 


BEFORE  THE  F1REL 


«AS   GOOD  AS  A  PLAY." 

THEEE  was  quite  a  row  of  them  on  the  man- 
tel-piece. They  were  all  facing  front,  and  it 
looked  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  the  wall  be- 
hind, and  were  on  their  little  stage  facing  the 
audience.  There  was  the  bronze  monk  read- 
ing a  book  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  who  had  a 
private  opening  under  his  girdle,  so  that  some- 
times his  head  was  thrown  violently  back,  and 
one  looked  down  into  him  and  found  him  full 
of  brimstone  matches.  Then  the  little  boy 
leaning  against  a  greyhound  ;  he  was  made  of 
Parian,  very  fine  Parian  too,  so  that  one  would 
expect  to  find  a  glass  cover  over  him :  but  no  ; 
the  glass  cover  stood  over  a  cat,  and  a  cat  made 
of  worsted  too  :  still  it  was  a  very  old  cat,  fifty 
years  old  in  fact.  There  was  another  young 
person  there,  young  like  the  boy  leaning  on  a 
greyhound,  and  she  too  was  of  Parian :  she 
vas  very  fair  in  front,  but  behind,  —  ah,  that 
is  a  secret  which  it  is  not  quite  time  yet  to 
tell.  One  other  stood  there,  at  least  she 


132  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

seemed  to  stand,  but  nobody  could  see  her  feet, 
for  her  dress  was  so  very  wide  and  so  finely 
flounced.  She  was  the  china  girl  that  rose  out 
of  a  pen-wiper. 

The  fire  in  the  grate  below  was  of  soft  coal, 
and  flashed  up  and  down,  throwing  little  jets 
of  flame  up  that  made  very  pretty  foot-lights. 
So  here  was  a  stage,  and  here  were  the  actors, 
but  where  was  the  audience?  0,  the  Au- 
dience was  in  the  arm-chair  in  front.  He  had 
a  special  seat ;  he  was  a  critic,  and  could  get 
up  when  he  wanted  to,  when  the  play  became 
tiresome,  and  go  out. 

"  It  is  painful  to  say  such  things  out  loud," 
said  the  Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound,  with 
a  trembling  voice,  "  but  we  have  been  together 
so  long,  and  these  people  round  us  never  will 
go  away.  Dear  girl,  will  you? — you  know." 
It  was  the  Parian  girl  that  he  spoke  to,  but  he 
did  not  look  at  her ;  he  could  not,  he  was  lean- 
ing against  the  greyhound  ;  he  only  looked  at 
the  Audience. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure,"  she  coughed.  "  If 
now  you  were  under  a  glass-case." 

"  I  am  under  a  glass-case,"  spoke  up  the 
Cat-made-of-worsted.  "  Marry  me.  I  am 
fifty  years  old.  Marry  me,  and  live  under  a 
glass-case." 


"AS  GOOD  AS  A  PLAY."  183 

"  Shocking  !  "  said  she.  "  How  can  you  ? 
Fifty  years  old,  too !  That  would  indeed  be  a 
match !  " 

"  Marry  !  "  muttered  the  hronze  Mouk-read- 
ing-a-book.  "  A  match !  I  am  full  of  matches, 
but  I  don't  marry.  Folly  !  " 

"  You  stand  up  very  straight,  neighbor," 
said  the  Cat-made-of- worsted. 

"  I  never  bend,"  said  the  bronze  Monk-read- 
ing-a-book.  "  Life  is  earnest.  I  read  a  book 
by  a  candle.  I  am  never  idle." 

The  Cat-made-of-worsted  grinned  to  himself. 

"  You've  got  a  hinge  in  your  back,"  said  he. 
"  They  open  you  in  the  middle ;  your  head  flies 
back.  How  the  blood  must  run  down.  And 
then  you're  full  of  brimstone  matches.  He ! 
he  ! "  and  the  Cat-made-of-worsted  grinned  out 
loud.  The  Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound 
spoke  again,  and  sighed,  — 

"  I  am  of  Parian,  you  know,  and  there  is  no 
one  else  here  of  Parian,  except  yourself." 

"  And  the  greyhound,"  said  the  Parian  girl. 

"  Yes,  and  the  greyhound,"  said  he,  eagerly. 
"  He  belongs  to  me.  Come,  a  glass-case  is 
nothing  to  it.  We  could  roam ;  0,  we  could 
roam !  " 

"  I  don't  like  roaming." 

"  Then  we  could  stay  at  home,  and  lean 
against  the  greyhound." 


134  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  No,"  said  the  Parian  girl,  "  I  don't  like 
that." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  have  private  reasons." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  No  matter." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Cat-made-of-worsted. 
f  I  saw  her  behind.  She's  hollow.  She's 
stuffed  with  lamp-lighters.  He !  he !  "  and 
the  Cat-made-of-worsted  grinned  again. 

"  I  love  you  just  as  much,"  said  the  stead- 
fast Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound,  "  and  I 
don't  believe  the  Cat." 

"  Go  away,"  said  the  Parian  girl,  angrily. 
"  You're  all  hateful.  I  won't  have  you." 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  the  Boy-leaning-agaiust-a- 
grey  hound. 

"  Ah  !  "  came  another  sigh,  —  it  was  from 
the  China  -  girl  -  rising-out-of  -  a-pen-wiper,  — 
"  how  I  pity  you." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  he,  eagerly.  "  Do  you  ? 
Then  I  love  you.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  said  she ;  "  but "  - 

"  She  can't !  "  said  the  Cat-made-of-worsted. 
"  She  can't  come  to  you.  She  hasn't  got  any 
legs.  I  know  it.  I'm  fifty  years  old.  I  never 
saw  them." 

"  Never  mind  the  Cat,"  said  the  Boy-leaning- 
against-a-greyhound. 


"AS  GOOD  AS  A  PLAY."  135 

"  But  I  do  mind  the  Cat,"  said  she,  weeping. 
"  I  haven't.  It's  all  pen-wiper." 

"  Do  I  care  ?  "  said  he. 

"  She  has  thoughts,"  said  the  bronze  Monk- 
reading-a-book.  "That  lasts  longer  than 
beauty.  And  she  is  solid  behind." 

"And  she  has  no  hinge  in  her  back," 
grinned  the  Cat  -  made  -  of-  worsted.  "  Come, 
neighbors,  let  us  congratulate  them.  You 
begin." 

"  Keep  out  of  disagreeable  company,"  said 
the  bronze  Monk-readiug-a-book. 

"  That  is  not  congratulation ;  that  is  advice," 
said  the  Cat-made-of-worsted.  "  Never  mind, 
go  on,  my  dear,"  —  to  the  Parian  girl.  "  What ! 
nothing  to  say?  Then  I'll  say  it  for  you. 
'  Friends,  may  your  love  last  as  long  as  your 
courtship.'  Now  I'll  congratulate  you." 

But  before  he  could  speak,  the  Audience  got 
up. 

"You  shall  not  say  a  word.  It  must  end 
happily." 

He  went  to  the  mantel-piece  and  took  up  the 
China-girl-rising-out-of-a-pen-wiper. 

"  Why,  she  has  legs  after  all,"  said  he. 

"  They're  false,"  said  the  Cat  -  made  -  of - 
worsted.  "  They're  false.  I  know  it.  I'm  fifty 
vears  old.  I  never  saw  true  ones  on  her." 


186  BEFORE    THE  FIRE. 

The  Audience  paid  110  attention,  but  took  up 
the  Boy-leauiug-agaiust-a-greyhouud. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  Cat  -  made  -  of  -  worsted, 
"Come.  I  like  this.  He's  hollow.  They're 
all  hollow.  He  !  he !  Neighbor  Monk,  you're 
hollow.  He !  he ! "  and  the  Cat-made-of- 
worsted  never  stopped  grinning.  The  Audi- 
ence lifted  the  glass-case  from  him  and  set  it 
over  the  Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound  and 
the  China-girl-rising-out-of-a-pen-wiper. 

u  Be  happy  !  "  said  he. 

"  Happy  !  "  said  the  Cat-made-of-worsted. 
«  Happy!" 

Still  they  were  happy. 


THE  ENCHAINMENT  OF  OLD  DANIEL. 

IN  the  White  Mountain  district  of  New 
England,  high  up  among  the  hills,  is  a  little 
valley,  so  retired  that  scarce  any  hut  enthusi- 
astic trout-hunters  have  found  it  out,  and  so 
lonely  that  one  sees  here  and  there  deserted 
farms,  whose  occupants  had  not  courage  to 
stay  in  the  solitude,  but  have  fled  to  busier 
haunts.  Mount  Osceola  looks  down  upon  it, 
overtopping  a  company  of  hills  that  shoulder 
each  other,  and  Mad  Eiver  tumbles  headlong 
out  of  the  valley,  rushing  into  the  dark  pine 
woods.  Thick  forests  are  all  about,  and  it 
would  seem  a  gloomy  place  to  enter  at  night- 
fall, with  only  one  or  two  twinkling  lights  in 
the  one  or  two  houses,  and  the  white  road  mak- 
ing its  way  to  the  little  saw-mill,  which  stands 
in  a  niche,  carved  out  of  the  black  woods,  at 
the  further  end  of  the  valley.  Gloomier  still 
would  it  seem  to  push  by  the  mill  into  the 
silent  woods,  following  a  foot-path  little  used, 
and  feeling  the  forest  close  behind  one,  as  if 


138  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

shutting  out  forever  the  light  of  day  and  the 
voices  of  men. 

Yet,  along  this  lonely  path,  leaving  the  mill 
behind  and  going  deeper  into  the  forest,  walked 
an  old  man,  with  a  bag  on  his  back,  upon  the 
uight  of  the  last  day  of  the  year.  It  was 
Daniel  Desmond,  a  hoary-headed  mariner,  who 
for  fifty  years  had  followed  the  sea,  being 
shifted  with  his  battered  chest  from  one  vessel 
to  another,  sailing  north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
and  had  at  last  given  up  the  pursuit,  mooring 
his  old  hulk  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Osceola,  in 
the  loneliest  spot  of  the  lonely  valley  of  the 
Mad.  For,  back  from  the  valley,  was  a  clearing 
in  the  forest  which  had  been  made  long  years 
before  by  a  man  who  thought  it  as  good  and 
cheap  a  place  as  any  in  which  to  work  and  live. 
He  had  built  a  small  house  there,  had  planted 
a  field,  and  put  up  a  fence  to  keep  out  the  world 
and  the  world's  stray  cattle ;  but  the  place 
grew  to  be  so  utterly  desolate  that  at  length 
he  fled  from  it,  leaving  the  house  and  ploughed 
field  and  fences  to  be  inhabited  by  the  squir- 
rels, or  perchance  by  bears  and  bob-cats.  So 
it  had  remained  for  several  years.  The  forest, 
seeing  no  one  about,  began  by  degrees  to  re- 
sume its  claim  to  the  land  which  had  been 
forcibly  taken  from  it.  First  the  little  trees 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  OLD  DANIEL.    139 

same  timidly  across  the  edge  of  tbe  clearing, 
and,  finding  no  one,  not  even  a  scarecrow  in  the 
corn-field,  they  made  up  their  minds  to  stay ; 
then  the  trees  behind  pushed  them  forward, 
and  so  the  forest  again  began  to  take  possession 
of  the  clearing,  while  the  rain  and  wind  and  the 
hot  sun  all  attacked  the  helpless  house,  till  it 
began  to  crumble. 

It  was  to  this  forlorn  spot  that  old  Daniel 
was  slowly  making  his  way  along  the  wood- 
path.  It  was  dark  above,  for  heavy  clouds 
were  in  the  sky ;  it  was  dark  all  about,  so  that 
he  could  scarcely  make  out  the  path  with  his 
eyes ;  and  it  was  darker  than  all  in  poor  old 
Daniel's  heart.  For  that  afternoon  his  shaggy 
dog,  Lion,  sole  house-companion,  had  strayed 
away,  whither  he  knew  not.  He  stopped  now 
and  then  to  whistle  for  his  dog,  but  whistled 
and  waited  in  vain.  He  did  not  find  him  at 
home  either  when  he  reached  the  crumbling 
house,  which  he  was  making  shift  to  live  in  ; 
and  Daniel  shook  his  head  miserably  all  the 
evening  as  he  crouched  over  his  fire,  which 
warmed  his  old  bones,  to  be  sure,  but  seemed 
unable  to  send  a  particle  of  warmth  into  his 
shivering  soul. 

But  why  was  this  battered  mariner  ending 
his  days  in  such  forlorn  fashion,  and  what  mis- 


140  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

erable  fortune  drove  him  to  this  lonely  spot  ? 
An  idle  reason  indeed :  but  nothing  better 
could  old  Daniel  answer,  than  that  in  this 
valley  he  was  born  and  here  he  spent  his  child- 
hood ;  that,  when  he  went  away  to  be  beaten 
about  on  seas,  he  carried  with  him  a  blessed 
memory  of  the  spot,  and  ever  his  one  dream 
had  been  —  whether  frozen  in  the  northern 
ice,  or  tossed  in  torrid  zone — to  come  back  to 
his  New  England  home  and  end  his  days  in 
the  valley  of  the  Mad.  So  he  had  come,  and 
here  he  was  living  in  the  old  house  which  his 
father  had  built  and  fled  from,  and  where  his 
childish  memories  clustered.  It  was  not  so 
beautiful  as  he  remembered  it; 'but  he  clung 
to  it  like  the  shipwrecked  mariner  he  was,  flung 
up  into  these  hills  from  the  tossing  sea. 

As  old  Daniel  sat  by  the  fire,  rubbing  his 
hands  slowly  over  his  head,  he  began  to  think 
of  his  voyages,  of  the  strange  lands  he  had 
seen.  Everywhere  that  he  had  been,  to  be 
sure,  he  had  thought  it  not  half  so  beautiful 
as  the  little  home  on  the  mountains  ;  but 
somehow,  now  that  he  was  here,  the  old  man 
was  restless  to  be  elsewhere.  He  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out,  shading  his  face  with 
his  hands.  Nothing  to  be  seen ;  it  was  all 
black,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  faithful  Lion. 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  OLD  DANIEL.     141 

"  Dear,  dear,"  he  sighed  to  himself,  "  if  only 
I  could  take  one  voyage  more  and  sail  to  some 
new  land,  where  all  this  trouble  should  be  gone, 
and  things  wouldn't  be  quite  so  black  and  dis- 
mal. 0,  this  is  a  doleful  New  Year's  Eve.  It 
don't  look  as  if  the  new  year  were  going  to  be 
much  better  than  the  old  ones,"  and  Daniel 
fumbled  about  the  room  with  his  tallow  candle, 
putting  things  to  rights  before  he  should  go  to 
bed.  Even  when  he  had  gathered  himself  up 
for  a  night's  sleep,  he  continued  to  shake  his 
head,  and  mumble  over  the  forlorn  world  which 
he  had  to  live  in,  when  he  was  sure  there  was 
one  somewhere  which  was  bright  and  pure. 

But  where  was  the  bark  that  would  sail  to 
such  a  world,  and  take  in  such  a  weather- 
beaten,  dreary  fellow?  If  Daniel  had  been 
asked,  he  would  have  shaken  his  head  more 
dolefully  than  before,  and  yet  near  it  was ;  and 
now  indeed  began  a  wonder.  The  mariner  had 
shut  his  eyes  upon  the  old  earth  with  its  leaf- 
less trees  and  dingy  ground,  its  gloomy  forests 
hemming  in  the  open  clearing,  and  the  open 
clearing  itself,  with  its  stubble  and  decayed 
stumps  and  rotten  fences.  All  that  was  out 
of  sight,  not  to  be  wished  back ;  something 
better  was  to  come,  and  that  right  soon.  For 
now  there  came,  without  sound,  but  filling  the 


142  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

place  with  light,  a  ship  of  silver,  crescent- 
shaped,  without  mast  or  sails  or  rudder,  and 
yet  floating-  on  the  air,  close  by  the  hoary- 
headed  mariner. 

"  Come  !  sail  with  us,  Daniel,"  he  heard  from 
a  voice,  and  wondering,  hut  nothing  loth,  old 
Daniel  stepped  aboard  and  away  sailed  the 
silver  ship  through  the  air.  He  was  not  alone ; 
for  as  he  sat,  feeling  a  gentle  warmth  steal 
through  him  there,  he  saw  bright  figures  all 
about,  and  one,  more  beautiful  than  the  rest, 
who  had  called  him  to  the  ship  and  now  stood 
beside  him.  It  was  Neonetta,  the  fairy  of  New 
Year's  night;  this  was  her  silver  ship,  and 
these  her  attendants.  The  light  grew  brighter, 
and  Daniel's  eyes  got  more  open,  for  everything 
now  was  distinct.  They  had  left  the  dingy 
earth ;  that  and  the  old  year  had  gone  off  to- 
gether ;  they  were  sailing  over  a  sea  of  cloud 
which  lay  in  billows  beneath,  while  above  the 
bright  stars  were  shining.  There  was  no  wind 
to  chill,  and  yet  the  ship  sped  on,  cutting  her 
way  over  the  billowy  clouds. 

But  what  were  all  the  little  attendants  do- 
ing? Wonderful  works  they  were  at,  to  be 
sure,  for,  looking  behind,  Daniel  saw  a  bright 
train  of  them,  reaching  over  the  ship's  side 
and  receiving  from  little  hands  glittering  balli 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  OLD  DANIEL.     143 

of  every  hue ;  they  tossed  them  as  if  in  merry 
sport,  and  a  shower  of  the  halls  shot  across  the 
silver  ship.  But  heyoud  in  the  prow  was  an- 
other train  of  bright  fairies,  leaning'  over  the 
side  and  flinging  down  the  balls  into  the  deep. 
Once,  looking  at  the  wake,  the  clouds  parted. 
and  Daniel  saw  that  the  train  reached  far 
down  in  a  brilliant  flowing  line ;  he  could  see 
them  flinging  up  the  little  balls,  which  grew 
brighter  and  brighter  as  they  neared  the  ship  ; 
but,  strange  to  say,  as  they  shot  along  to  the 
fairies  at  the  prow,  they  clung  together,  and, 
from  glittering  balls  of  every  hue,  they  became 
starry  forms  of  pure  white.  "  These  are  the 
white  star-makers,"  said  Neonetta,  smiling,  as 
old  Daniel  looked  wonderiugly  at  her.  "  They 
are  busy  now,  for  we  are  sailing  to  a  new  land, 
in  which  I  am  to  be  queen,  and  the  white  stars 
are  to  decorate  the  country.  Are  you  not 
weary  of  the  old  earth  and  the  bare  trees  and 
ragged  ground  ?  "  Daniel  nodded  vehemently. 
"  Yes,  yes,"  he  mumbled,  but  could  not  hear 
himself  speak.  "  Well,"  she  continued,  "  that 
is  gone.  I  knew  you  were  weary  of  it,  and  so 
I  am  taking  you  to  my  home.  0,  it  will  be 
glorious  there,  so  pure  and  still !  "  The  little 
lady  waved  her  hands  and  faster  flew  the  bright 
balls,  while  the  white  stars  danced  through  the 
air,  as  if  they,  too,  were  c-lad. 


144  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"What  house  shall  we  live  in,  Daniel?" 
asked  Xeonetta,  dancing  about  him.  "  Shall 
it  be  in  one  with  shining  spires  and  glittering 
domes,  with  stars  for  windows  and  crystals  for 
doors  ?  " 

"  Let  us  have  a  good  fire,"  mumbled  Daniel, 
who  at  this  moment  felt  the  wind  from  Xeo- 
netta's  robe. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  looking  faint ;  "  but  we 
will  have  a  soft  white  carpet,  and,  when  we 
walk  abroad,  soft  white  mantles  over  our 
shoulders.  But  what  shall  we  have  to  eat, 
Daniel  ?  We  will  pluck  the  boughs  and  shake 
off  the  sweet  fruit  that  grows  on  the  ever- 
green. And  then  the  music  and  the  pictures  ! 
Music  so  sweet,  that  it  is  like  the  chiming  of 
distant  bells,  and  such  pictures  as  never  were 
seen  on  the  old,  dingy  earth."  Again  the  little 
lady  flung  up  her  tiny  arms,  and  danced  over 
the  silver  ship.  Faster  flew  the  white  stars, 
and  the  long  train  of  fairies  ascended  and  de- 
scended in  a  flowing  line  of  changing  light. 
The  silver  ship  sped  on,  and  now  the  billowy 
clouds  grew  thinner,  while  above,  the  stars  that 
had  shone,  one  by  one  went  out  before  a  clearer 
light  which  began  to  spread  and  spread  over 
the  sky. 

"  The  new  land !  "  cried  Neonetta,  dancing 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  OLD  DANIEL.      145 

about  old  Daniel,  who  was  now  peering  over 
the  ship's  side.  "  Come  with  me  out  of  ray 
silver  ship,"  and  she  reached  her  hand  to  him. 
He  looked  around  :  the  shining  fairies  had 
vanished,  but  Neonetta  was  by  him.  He  looked 
once  more.  Neouetta  was  gone,  and  at  the 
same  moment  vanished  the  silver  ship.  Old 
Daniel  sprang  up.  It  was  dark  about  him,  but 
his  old  legs  bore  him,  half  groping,  toward  an 
opening  of  light.  He  looked  beyond,  and 
there,  far  away  in  the  distant  sky,  was  sailing 
the  silver  ship,  now  turned  to  gold.  In  cres- 
cent form,  it  was  floating  in  the  air  and  sailing 
away,  away,  growing  fainter  and  fainter.  He 
looked  about  him,  and  found  himself  in  the 
new  land,  for  instead  of  the  old,  dingy  earth, 
there  was  a  pure,  white  soil,  stretching  away 
in  gentle  ridges.  Instead  of  the  naked  trees, 
which  he  had  left  in  all  their  dismal  barren- 
ness, here  were  fair  trees,  laden  with  white 
foliage,  their  boughs  weighed  down  with  the 
heavy  white  fruit.  He  turned  and  looked  be- 
hind him.  There  stood  a  little  house,  all 
dressed  in  white,  with  a  white  robe  flung  over 
it,  that  hung  down  from  the  roof  and  over  the 
window  top.  He  looked  above  and  beyond.  A 
mountain  raised  itself,  like  a  good  old  man, 
with  splendid  brow ;  while  a  forest  spread 
10 


146  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

around,    like   a   great    company   of   beautiful 
maidens  clad  in  snowy  white. 

The  air  was  still,  when  a  chickadee  set  up  its 
little  note  of  cheer  and  welcome.  Far  off  he 
heard  a  wagon,  with  its  load  of  wood.  As  it 
moved  over  the  new  soil,  a  blissful  sound  rose 
in  the  air,  as  if  in  this  new  land  all  toil  was 
sweet  with  music.  Then,  better  still,  he  heard 
a  distant  baying.  Ho,  ho !  it  cried,  like  a  clear 
bell ;  ho,  ho  !  nearer  still,  coming  through  the 
forest.  Old  Daniel  looked  again  for  the  silver 
ship  turned  golden,  but  it  had  gone,  and  in  its 
place  bright  colors  of  rose  and  violet  filled  the 
sky,  as  if  no  clouds  were  to  hang  over  this 
beautiful  earth,  but  glad  hues  of  every  kind. 
He  listened  still,  and  heard  now  the  voice  of 
Neonetta  calling  to  him  in  the  distance. 
"  Come  !  "  she  cried,  "  ere  it  is  too  late ;  " 
and  the  voice,  even  while  she  spake,  grew 
fainter.  "  Ho,  ho  !  "  sounded  the  baying, 
nearer  now  and  nearer.  "  Come  !  "  cried  Neo- 
netta,  in  faint  tones.  "  Ho,  ho  !  —  ho,  ho  !  " 

Only  a  moment  more,  Queen  Neouetta !  for 
thy  enchantment  over  Daniel.  The  sun  will 
rise,  the  cock  will  crow,  good  Lion  will  bound 
across  the  snow-covered  clearing.  But,  we 
will  not  stay.  Hark!  there  is  Lion  again 
Ho,  ho ! 


THE  NEIGHBORS. 

WHEN  Christmas  comes  in  the  winter-time, 
as  it  has  come  ever  since  I  can  remember,  the 
earth  is  very  apt  to  get  a  Christmas  present  of 
a  fall  of  snow ;  and  if  one  were  an  old  fence, 
or  a  house-roof,  or  a  patch  of  brown  dry  grass 
that  had  once  been  green,  one  would  wish  every 
Christmas  to  have  the  same  present  of  a  great 
snow  fall  that  should  cover  one  up,  so  that 
people  would  say,  —  "  Really,  how  charmingly 
that  old  fence  looks ; "  or  "  How  the  snow 
takes  off  the  sharpness  of  that  roof; "  or,  if 
they  were  trying  to  be  poetical,  "  See  what  a 
soft  ermine  mantle  hangs  over  the  shoulder  of 
that  hill !  "  And  yet,  if  the  snow  lay  heavily 
upon  the  house-roof  very  long,  one  would 
think  that  there  could  be  little  heat  for  the 
dwellers  inside,  else  it  would  be  melted  off. 

Everybody,  however,  does  not  keep  a  fire 
burning  all  night  in  the  house,  and  perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  why  two  houses  which 
stood  almost  touching  each  otner  had  heavy 


148  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

capes  of  snow  on,  the  night  before  Christmas. 
It  was  easily  to  be  seen,  for  the  moon  was 
shining  brightly  after  the  day's  snow-storm, 
and  the  house-tops  looked  wonderfully  white 
and  cold.  These  two  houses,  though  the  snow 
fell  on  both  alike,  were  as  different  as  two 
men.  One,  with  its  pointed  roof,  was  like 
a  tall  man  with  an  old-fashioned  hat  on.  It 
stood  in  a  dignified  sort  of  way,  as  if  it  re- 
spected itself,  looking  out  in  every  direction 
with  windows  set  firmly  in  their  places,  or 
perched,  leaning  upon  their  elbows,  on  the 
roof.  Each  of  the  windows  had  its  own  pri- 
vate cap,  which  it  kept  on  all  the  while  of 
course,  for  its  head  was  out-of-doors  in  all  kinds 
of  weather;  and  the  front  door  had,  besides, 
two  pillars  on  which  to  lean.  A  flight  of  steps 
led  up  to  it,  so  that  people  who  wished  to  enter 
must  climb  up  to  it,  and  ring  a  brass  bell-han- 
dle, and  read  FEOME  on  a  great  door-plate. 
There  was  a  chimney,  with  a  row  of  little 
chimney-pots  on  top  —  a  separate  little  hole 
for  each  fire-place  in  the  house  :  the  range  in 
the  kitchen  sent  up  its  smoke  by  a  sort  of  pri- 
vate back-stairs,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the 
emoke  from  the  parlor  and  the  dining-room. 
And  the  fence  in  front  of  the  house  had  a  bras? 
head  on  each  iron  spike,  and  they  stood  in  a 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  149 

row,  glaring  at  one  like  a  squad  of  policemen, 
saying,  "  Keep  your  hands  off  the  house,  if 
they're  not  clean  !  " 

It  seems  very  strange,  then,  that  upon  one 
side  of  this  house  the  windows  should  all  look 
at  the  wall  of  the  other  house,  which  stood 
separated  from  it  by  not  more  than  ten  feet. 
They  did  not  indeed  look  into  it,  for  their 
blinds  were  all  shut  tight,  but  it  was  for  no 
lack  of  openness  in  the  other  house.  This 
had  no  blinds  at  all,  and  it  had  windows  di- 
rectly opposite  the  blinds,  at  which  they  stared 
all  day  long,  like  eyes  without  -winkers.  The 
house  was  not  so  high,  however,  as  Mr. 
Frome's,  and  had  a  flat  roof,  over  which  the 
upper  windows  in  the  roof  of  Mr.  Frome's 
house  could  see  very  well  if  there  was  anything 
worth  looking  at.  It  was  a  squarish,  short- 
necked  house,  sitting  on  the  ground,  and  one 
could  walk  straight  in  by  a  door  so  flat  that 
when  it  was  shut  one  could  hardly  tell  it  from 
'.he  rest  of  tte  house -front.  Regular  rows  of 
windows  occupied  the  front  and  side,  looking 
as  if  they  had  all  been  sawed  out  after  the 
house  was  made.  There  was  no  fence  in  front ; 
but  the  fence  that  separated  it  from  the  neigh- 
bor house  was  right  against  this  house,  or 
rather  the  house  looked  as  if  it  had  been  set 


150  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

against  the  fence,  for  the  fence  was  older. 
There  was  a  name  upon  the  door,  spelled  in 
china  letters  —  GBASH.  So  Mr.  Grash  lived 
here. 

At  the  time  when  our  story  begins  there  was 
no  light  in  Mr.  Froine's  house,  but  in  a  win- 
dow of  the  second  story  of  Mr.  Grash's  there 
was  a  twinkling  light,  and  shadows  of  persons 
could  be  seen  moving  back  and  forth.  There 
was  a  light  in  the  neighboring  room  also.  It 
was  nearly  midnight;  the  snow-storm  which 
had  fallen  all  day  had  given  place  to  bright 
moonlight,  but  clouds  had  gathered,  and  there 
was  promise  of  a  new  snow-storm.  Neverthe- 
less, two  humble  neighbors  that  had  come  out 
to  see  each  other  in  the  moonlight,  remained 
out-of-doors.  They  were  two  cats,  upon  the 
roofs  of  these  two  houses.  One  was  sitting  on 
the  sill  of  a  roof-window  of  Mr.  Frome's  house 
—  that  was  Mr.  Frome's  Cat ;  the  other  was 
upon  the  roof  of  Mr.  Grash's  house  —  that 
was  Mr.  Grash's  Cat.  They  coujd  talk  very 
easily  across  the  narrow  space  that  separated 
the  two  houses. 

"  A  still  night,  neighbor,"  said  Mr.  Frome's 
Cat. 

"  Aye,  you  may  well  say  that,"  rejoined  Mr 
Crash's  Cat.  "This  snow  does  make  soft 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  151 

travelling.  It's  the  only  time  wlien  I  wish  I 
were  white,  —  snow-white  I  mean,  for  I  have 
Borne  white,"  and  he  looked  proudly  on  his  fur. 
"  One  makes  dreadful  shadows  on  the  snow.  I 
say,  do  you  think  we  should  make  less  if  we 
were  wholly  white  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  am  not  sure,"  said  the  other,  re- 
flecting. "  But  it's  the  moon  you  know  that 
makes  us  make  shadows,  and  this  is  what 
puzzles  me.  Why  does  not  the  moon  make  a 
shadow  too?  That  great  round  thing  goes 
across  the  sky  as  fast  as  a  rat  sometimes,  but 
we  don't  see  any  round  shadow  going  down  the 
street.  I've  often  watched  for  it,"  and  he 
looked  puzzled.  They  both  sat  some  time  in 
silence,  but  neither  could  answer  the  question. 
Mr.  Frome's  Cat  was  still  thinking  about  it, 
but  Mr.  Grash's  Cat  had  other  thoughts.  He 
spoke  again,  — 

"  I  say,  does  she  ever  leave  the  cover  off?  " 

"The  cover?" 

"  Yes,  the  cover ;  you  know,  the  cook,  in  the 
back-yard,"  said  Mr.  Grash's  Cat,  licking  his 
chops,  and  looking  rather  hungry. 

"  I  am  fed  in  the  house,"  said  Mr.  Frome's 
Cat  with  dignity. 

"  As  if  you  did  not  go  out  and  help  yourself," 
said  the  oth?r  scornfully. 


152  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  I  have  no  need  to,"  said  Mr.  Frorae's  Cat 
coldly,  "  and  we  don't  keep  it  in  the  yard." 

"  Don't  tell  me  !  precious  fine  you  are  with 
your  wall  behind,  so  high  I  can't  climb  over. 
How  some  people  think  they're  too  good  for 
their  neighbors !  "  and  Mr.  Grash's  Cat  looked 
spitefully  across. 

"  Our  neighbors  were  not  of  our  choosing," 
said  Mr.  Fronie's  Cat.  "  We  hardly  should 
select  such  ungenerous  —  but,  0  dear !  I 
knew  we  should  quarrel  if  we  got  on  to  this 
subject  again.  Come,  it  has  begun  to  snow 
again,  let  us  part." 

"  Ungenerous !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Grash's  Cat, 
• —  "  ungenerous  !  is  not  this  our  land,  and  did 
we  not  have  the  right  to  build  just  where  we 
pleased  on  our  own  land  ?  and  if  your  house 
happened  to  stand  so  near,  say,  was  that  our 
fault?  and  if  your  windows  looked  into  ours 
on  one  side,  say,  did  we  make  your  windows  ? 
Ungenerous ! " 

"  But,  Mr.  Grash,"  said  Mr.  Frome's  Cat,  — 
they  always  called  each  other  Mr.  Frome  and 
Mr.  Grash  when  they  got  excited  talking  about 
the  houses,  —  "  but,  Mr.  Grash,  our  house  was 
built  first "  - 

"  And  could  no  one  else  build  a  house  after 
you,  good  Mr.  Frome  ?  " 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  153 

u  Nay,  hear  me,  friend  Grash.  We  built  our 
house  first  when  there  was  no  other  house  near, 
and  put  windows  upon  this  side  purposely  to 
see  the  fine  view  beyond.  We  tried  to  buy 
your  laud,  but  you  would  not  sell,  and  said  you 
had  no  thought  of  building ;  and  then  because 
you  claimed  that  our  fence  was  set  a  half  foot 
on  your  ground,  though  the  law  showed  it  was 
not,  what  should  you  do  but  out  of  spite  build 
a  house  on  the  very  edge  of  your  land,  shutting 
out  our  view  on  that  side  and  obliging  us  to 
close  all  the  windows.  I  must  say  it  was  un- 
generous ;  it  was  more,  it  was  wicked  !  "  and 
Mr.  Frome's  Cat  held  up  his  paw  and  looked 
the  other  way. 

"  0,  O  !  "  snarled  Mr.  Grash's  Cat,  "  and 
you  are  the  upright,  honest  neighbor  that  went 
to  law  about  it,  and  tried  your  best  to  impov- 
erish us,  and  then  offered  to  buy  our  house  — 
0,  0  !  And  your  little  boys  have  learned  to 
call  us  names,  and  to  fling  stones  at  me !  Say, 
was  that  wicked  ? "  And  Mr.  Grash's  Cat 
bounced  up  and  down  in  a  rage,  with  both 
paws  stretched  out. 

"  You  shall  have  a  piece  of  my  mind,  neigh- 
bor," said  Mr.  Frome's  Cat,  getting  up  in 
great  excitement  and  standing  on  the  very 
sdge  of  the  slippery  roof.  "  But,  0  dear  !  "  he 


154  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

said,  as  his  feet  sank  in  the  cold  snow,  "  here 
we  are  quarreling-  again  over  this  old  matter," 
and  he  returned  to  his  shelter  by  the  window. 
"  Do,  pray,  let  us  leave  this  horrid  subject. 
What  a  charming  night !  " 

Mr.  Frome's  Cat  meant  well,  but  he  did  not 
have  much  tact. 

"  A  charming  night !  "  hissed  the  other. 
"  Say,  what  is  the  piece  of  your  mind  ?  0, 
how  grand  you  feel !  " 

"  You're  hungry,  friend,"  said  Mr.  Frome's 
Cat,  soothingly.  "  Come,  let  us  see  what  we 
can  find." 

"  And  well  I  may  be,"  retorted  the  other 
fiercely,  "  with  your  high  wall  —  0  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  his  neighbor,  eager  to  keep  the 
peace,  "just  jump  across,  and  we'll  go  down 
there." 

Now  Mr.  Crash's  Cat  never  had  jumped 
across  before,  but  the  temptation  was  so  great 
to  the  hungry  fellow  that  he  did  not  hesitate 
more  than  a  moment,  and  made  the  leap. 
Alas !  perhaps  he  was  weak,  perhaps  the  dis- 
tance was  more  than  he  thought,  —  poor  Mr. 
Grash's  Cat  just  jumped  into  the  air  and  went 
down,  down,  over  and  over,  to  the  ground  be- 
tween the  two  houses.  Mr.  Frome's  Cat  saw 
him  disappear;  Mr.  Frame's  Cat  rushed  to  the 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  155 

edge  to  look  after  his  comrade;  the  roof  was 
steep,  the  snow  slipped,  and  Mr.  Frome's  Cat 
went  down,  down,  over  and  over,  to  the  ground ; 
both  were  in  the  air  at  once,  but  of  course  Mr. 
Grash's  Cat  reached  bottom  first,  and  each  as 
they  fell  uttered  a  long-  scream. 

At  the  sound,  a  window  in  Mr.  Grash's 
house  opening  upon  the  place,  was  thrown  up, 
and  a  head  appeared. 

u  0  dear!  "  said  a  nervous  voice,  "  0  dear !  " 
and  the  head  peering  down,  discovered  the  two 
cats,  who  were  now  sitting  together,  rubbing 
their  heads  to  collect  their  wits.  "  Scat !  " 
said  the  voice ;  "  Shu,  shu !  "  and  round  the 
corner  darted  the  two  bewildered  cats,  leaping 
the  iron  picket  fence. 

The  next  morning  was  Christmas.  The  snow 
lay  heavily  on  the  ground,  but  it  had  stopped 
falling,  and  the  sky  was  clear;  the  air  was 
sparkling  with  freshness,  and  it  was  a  real 
pleasure  to  be  in  it,  to  draw  it  into  the  warm 
lungs,  and  send  it  out  again  in  whiffs  of  vapor. 
A  little  boy  was  shoveling  snow  in  front  of  Mr. 
Frome's  house,  and  he  seemed  like  a  miniature 
steam-engine,  puffing  at  his  work,  and  pitch- 
ing the  snow  into  the  street  with  regular 
tosses,  while  every  now  and  then  he  would 


156  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

stop,  as  if  the  fireman  to  the  engine  had 
opened  a  valve,  and. was  to  let  off  a  little  more 
steam  first.  This  was  Tommy  Frome,  who 
was  clearing-  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his 
father's  house,  while  his  little  brother  and 
sister  watched  him  from  behind  the  window  of 
the  dining-room,  where  they  were  waiting  for 
breakfast.  Jack,  who  had  begged  hard  to  go 
out  and  shovel  snow,  was  kept  in  with  a  great 
cold  in  his  head,  so  that  he  was  snuffing  dis- 
agreeably, and  had  his  handkerchief  in  a  hard 
round  ball.  Sally  was  perfectly  well,  and  was 
playing  with  one  of  her  Christmas  presents,  — 
a  Nuremberg  India-rubber  man,  whose  head, 
being  shoved  down  into  his  stomach,  would 
very  slowly  rise,  as  the  air  filled  him  from  a 
little  hole  behind,  until  it  bobbed  up,  uttered  a 
little  squeak,  shook  itself  with  another  squeak, 
and  then  held  itself  erect,  with  an  anxious  and 
injured  expression  on  the  face.  Sally  kept 
knocking  on  the  window  for  Tommy  to  see  it, 
but  he  could  not  hear  it  squeak,  and  so  it  did 
not  seem  so  droll  to  him. 

At  last  the  little  steam-engine  outside  had 
finished  the  work,  and  was  coming  into  the 
house  with*  a  great  deal  of  stamping ;  and 
kicking  oif  his  India  -  rubber  boots,  Tommy 
Frome  entered  the  dining-room,  blowing  great 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  157 

blasts  on  his  nose,  which  was  as  red  as  his 
ears  and  his  cheeks.  His  father  and  mother 
were  there  by  the  fire,  and  breakfast  was  ready, 
to  which  they  all  sat  down. 

"  Well,  Tommy,"  said  Mr.  Frome,  "  did  you 
clear  all  the  snow  off?  " 

"  Yes,  sir-r-r,"  said  Tommy,  who  was  in  high 
spirits,  "  all  on  our  sidewalk ;  but  there  isn't 
much  gone  off  Old  Grash's  sidewalk  —  not 
much.  I  let  him  have  some  of  ours." 

"  Grash-away !  Grash-away  !  let  hib  alode  ! 
He  lives  with  his  wife,  add  his  cat,  add  a  bode," 

sung  Master  Jack,  as  well  as  he  could,  with  his 
organ  out  of  tune. 

"  Jack  !  "  said  his  mother. 

"  That's  what  all  the  boys  sing,  mother," 
said  Sally,  "  and  Old  Grash  shakes  his  stick 
at  them.  What  makes  them  call  him  Grash- 
away  ?  " 

"  Because  he's  so  cross,"  said  Tom  ;  "  and  he 
had  no  business  to  build  his  house  where  he 
did  — had  he,  father?" 

"  Do,"  said  Jack ;  "  add  I  bead  to  burd  it 
dowd  sub  dight." 

"  I  guess  that  will  burn  ours  pretty  quick, 
foungster,"  said  his  older  brother. 

"  Well,  we  could  build  ours  again,"  said 
Sally,  "  but  he  isn't  rich  enough  to  build  his." 


158  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  Children,"  said  their  mother,  glancing  at 
Mr.  Frome,  "  who  wants  to  go  to  Aunt  Mar- 
tha's to-day  ?" 

"  Me !  "  said  three  bad  grammarians  in  one 
voice.  So  they  fell  to  talking  about  Aunt  Mar- 
tha the  rest  of  breakfast  time,  but  Mr.  Frome 
said  little.  He  felt  uncomfortably  ;  and,  when 
breakfast  was  over,  he  pushed  his  chair  away 
and  sat  by  the  fire,  while  the  children  played 
and  talked  together.  He  was  uneasy.  Here 
were  his  children  growing  up  and  catching  at 
his  dislike  of  his  neighbor ;  keeping  the  quar- 
rel alive,  and  shooting,  perhaps  every  day,  little 
irritating  arrows  of  words  at  Mr.  Grash,  which 
he  himself  would  have  been  ashamed,  of  course, 
to  use.  But  yet,  did  he  not  have  in  his  heart 
the  hard,  cross  feelings  toward  his  neighbor 
which  his  children  put  into  words,  while  they 
had  no  special  grudge,  but  only  caught  their 
father's  dislike  ? 

"  Hush,  children ;  we  are  going  to  have 
prayers  now,"  said  Mrs.  Frome,  and  she 
handed  the  family  Bible  to  her  husband.  He 
took  it,  open  at  the  place  which  she  had  found, 
and  still  thinking  of  his  neighbor,  himself,  and 
his  children,  he  read  the  story  of  the  birth  of 
the  Lord  Jesus,  of  the  angel  that  came  to  the 
shepherds,  with  his  wonderful  words :  "  Unto 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  159 

you  is  born  this  day,  in  the  city  of  David,  a 
Saviour,  which  is  Christ  the  Lord.  And  this 
shall  be  a  sign  unto  you  :  ye  shall  find  the  babe 
wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes,  lying-  in  a  man- 
ger." And  then,  how  the  multitude  of  the 
heavenly  host  burst  into  their  song  of  praise, 
perhaps  at  the  very  moment  when,  leaning 
eagerly  out  of  heaven,  they  saw  the  Babe 
born  upon  earth.  O  divine  song,  that  never 
since  has  died  away  !  for  always  there  are  new 
voices  to  take  it  up,  in  heaven  and  on  earth, 
none  singing  out  of  tune,  —  but  poor,  feeble, 
cracked  voices  of  earthly  singers  chiming  in 
with  the  full  notes  of  angels.  Mr.  Frome  read 
the  words,  too,  that  Christmas  morning,  and 
then,  as  was  their  wont,  the  family  kneeled  in 
prayer.  Mr.  Frome's  lips  uttered  some  words, 
he  scarcely  knew  what :  they  were  but  sounds, 
for  his  heart  was  wandering  away,  thinking  of 
those  joyful  words,  and  what  a  life  of  sorrow 
and  sufi'ering  they  ushered  in.  "Yes,"  he 
murmured  in  his  prayer,  "  God  so  loved  the 
world ; "  and  he  thought  within  himself  that 
it  was  when  God  gave  up  His  son  that  He  bade 
the  joyful  choir  of  angels  sing.  His  voice 
trembled ;  he  fell  into  the  Lord's  Prayer,  in 
which  the  rest  joined,  and  only  when  he  ut- 
tered the  words,  "  Forgive  us  our  debts  as  we 


160  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

forgive  our  debtors,"  did  poor  Mr.  Frome's 
mind  come  back  and  tbrow  itself  fervently  into 
his  words. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  hastily,  as  he  rose,  "  I 
am  going  in  to  see  neighbor  Grash.  Tommy, 
just  bring  me  my  boots,  will  you?  " 

"  And  do  ask  how  Mrs.  Grash  is,  John," 
said  Mrs.  Frome,  looking  very  much  pleased. 
"  I  saw  the  doctor's  chaise  at  the  door  yester- 
day, and  I  am  afraid  she  is  sick.  I  would  have 
sent  to  inquire,  but "  —  and  she  looked  a  little 
shyly  at  her  husband. 

"  Ahem  !  "  said  he,  getting  something  out 
of  his  throat,  "  you  are  right,  you  are  always 
right,  Mary ;  it  was  wrong,  it  is  all  wrong;  I 
begin  to  see  it,"  and  ejaculating  such  short 
sentences  as  he  tugged  at  his  boots,  Mr.  Frome 
grew  red  in  the  face,  and,  kissing  his  wife,  went 
into  the  entry.  He  came  back  in  a  moment. 
"  Tom,"  said  he,  "  can  you  act  like  a  little  gen- 
tleman ?  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  and  see 
Mr.  Grash." 

"  O  bah  !  "  said  the  boy. 

"  I'd  go,  Tobby,"  said  Jack.  "  Ask  hib  how 
his  cat  is." 

"  Jack,"  said  his  mother,  quietly,  "  Mr. 
Grash  hasn't  any  rude  little  boys  to  call  us 
names." 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  161 

Tom  hung  back  a  minute  more,  and  then,  see- 
ing his  father  waiting,  he  ran  out  and  pulled 
his  hoots  up  over  his  feet,  and  his  tippet  down 
over  his  head,  and  so  was  ready,  nodding  back 
to  the  rest  in  the  window,  as  he  and  his  father 
went  down  the  steps  and  on  to  the  sidewalk. 
At  that  moment  the  door  of  their  neighbor's 
house  opened,  and  Mr.  Grash  stepped  out  into 
the  street.  Mr.  Froine  was  flustered  a  mo- 
ment. He  had  expected  to  ring  the  door-bell, 
and  he  had  not  collected  his  thoughts  yet. 

"  Eh !  ah  !  "  said  he ;  "  O,  Mr.  Grash,  a 
merry  Christmas  to  you  —  I  wish  you  a  merry 
Christmas !  "  and  he  pulled  at  his  glove,  and 
thrust  his  hand  out  with  the  glove  flapping  at 
the  tip,  for  he  could  not  get  it  off  before  Mr. 
Grash  had  held  out  his  hand  in  its  mitten,  and 
had  shaken  it  up  and  down  a  great  many 
times. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  a  merry  Christmas,  Mr.  Frome 
—  at  least  I  hope  so.  Doing  pretty  well.  I 
say,  do  you  think  your  wife  ?  —  You  know  — 
the  doctor  said  he'd  come  again  —  he  hasn't 
come  yet  —  do  you  see  him  ?  "  and  Mr.  Grash 
looked  anxiously  down  the  street. 

"  Why,  what  —  O  !  ah  !  Tommy,  run  into 
Jhe  house  at  once,  and  tell  your  mother  to  come 
quick  — just  as  quick  as  she  can  —  to  Mr. 
11 


162  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

Grash's.  Tell  her  Mrs.  Grash  has  a  little  boy, 
Mr.  Grash,  I  wish  you  joy,  most  heartily." 

"Why,  didn't  you  know  it?"  asked  Mr. 
Grash,  looking  amazed. 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  it,  being  your 
nearest  neighbor,  Grash,  but  really  —  I  —  I 
was  coming  to  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas," 
said  Mr.  Frome,  turning  a  little  redder,  "  and 
I  thought  it  would  not  be  merry  to  me  unless 
I  wiped  out  old  scores." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Mr.  Grash,  "  I'm  glad  to 
hear  you  say  so,  for  last  night,  as  I  was  watch- 
ing and  waiting,  I  turned  it  all  over,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  the  first  thing  I'd  do 
this  morning  would  be  to  go  to  you,  and  —  and 
—  take  it  all  back.  Mr.  Frome,"  he  went  on, 
after  a  moment,  "  it  was  my  wife's  doing.  She 
said  to  me  last  night  —  says  she,  '  If  I  die, 
Simon,  you'll  make  it  all  up  with  Mr.  Frome 
— won't  you?  You  know  we  were  the  wrong 
ones.'  As  if  she  was  wrong,  Mr.  Frome ! 
Somehow,  I  can't  feel  this  morning  as  I  did 
yesterday  —  or  day  before  yesterday,  I  mean. 
This  sitting  up  all  night  confuses  one  so.  I 
want  to  be  at  peace  with  everybody.  I  feel  as 
if  some  one  had  been  ringing  bells  or  singing 
gongs." 

At  this  moment  back  came  Tommy  with  his 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  163 

mother,  and  by  her  was  little  Sally.  Poor 
Jack  stood  behind  the  window,  his  ball  of  a 
handkerchief  up  at  his  face,  now  blowing  his 
nose  and  now  wiping-  his  tears,  because  he 
couldn't  go  over  and  see  Mr.  Grash's  baby,  but 
must  stay  in  the  house  for  fear  of  catching 
more  cold.  Mrs.  Fro  me  shook  hands  warmly 
with  Mr.  Grash,  and  little  Sally  came  boldly  up 
and  said,  — 

"  Merry  Christmas,  Mr.  Grash  !  Mother 
says  I  can't  see  the  baby,  but  here  is  some- 
thing I'll  lend  her.  I  can't  give  it,  you  know, 
because  it  was  a  present  to  me  this  morning. 
You  must  do  so;  "  and  so  saying,  Sally  held  up 
the  Nuremberg  India-rubber  man,  and  shoved 
his  head  into  his  stomach,  and  then  gravely 
watched  Mr.  Grash  to  see  what  he  would  do 
when  the  head  popped  up.  Mr.  Grash  laughed 
louder  than  any  one  had  laughed  yet,  and  she 
was  perfectly  satisfied. 

"  There  !  "  said  she,  triumphantly,  "  give 
that  to  her !  give  that  to  the  baby.  I  mean, 
show  it  to  her,"  for  as  Mr.  Grash  took  it,  Sally 
Bad  a  sudden  fear  she  might  never  see  it  again. 

"  I'll  send  it  back  by  your  mother,"  said  he ; 
"  but  it  is  a  little  boy-baby,  my  little  girl." 

"  0,  I  thought  it  was  a  girl,"  said  Sally,  a 
ittle  bit  disappointed.  "  Well,  never  mind," 


164  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

she  spoke  up  quite  cheerfully ;  "  I've  got  twc 
brothers,  and  they're  both  boys." 

"Mr.  Grash,"  said  Tommy,  "I'd  like  to 
clean  off  your  walk.  I  like  shoveling  snow." 

"  There's  a  little  man  !  "  said  Mr.  Grash, 
who  was  finding  it  quite  hard  to  get  back  into 
his  house  again,  what  with  his  new  friends  and 
their  offers  of  neighborliness.  So  the  door 
shut  behind  Mr.  Grash  and  his  neighbor  Mr. 
Frome,  and  his  neighbor's  wife  ;  and  the  two 
children  remained  outside,  Tommy  shoveling 
snow,  and  Sally  watching  him,  while  Jacky, 
whose  tears  were  dried,  was  now  rubbing  his 
thumb  up  the  window-pane,  and  making  what 
was  music  to  him. 

At  the  back  of  Mr.  Frome's  house  was  a 
high  wall,  shutting  in  the  yard.  A  gate 
opened  in  it,  but  it  was  closed,  and  by  it  out- 
side sat  two  cats.  They  were  Mr.  Frome's  Cat 
and4  Mr.  Grash's  Cat. 

"  Perhaps,  if  we  scratch  a  little  harder,  she 
might  come,"  said  Mr.  Grash's  Cat,  looking 
wistfully  at  the* gate. 

"  My  claws  are  rather  tender,"  said  Mr. 
Frome's  Cat ;  "  I  think  I  could  mew  better.  J 
wish  the  wall  were  not  so  high." 

"  Don't   speak   of  the   high  wall,  my  deal 


THE  NEIGHBORS.  165 

friend,  said  Mr.  Grash's  Cat.  "  You  make  me 
feel  so  ashamed  of  myself.  To  think  that  I 
should  ever  " 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  Mr.  Frome's  Cat, 
raising1  his  paw  playfully.  "  A  high  wall  shall 
not  separate  us,  who  are  neighbors.  Hark  !  " 
At  that  moment  the  cook  opened  the  gate,  and 
both  cats  at  once  ran  in.  The  gate  was  shut 
after  them,  and  so  nothing  more  could  he  seen. 
But  something  was  heard.  It  was  a  sort  of 
Bcraping  sound  on  a  tin  pan. 


GOOD  AND  BAD  APPLES. 

THEEE  was  a  little  apple-tree  near  the  gar« 
den  wall,  which  was  called  Rob's  apple-tree, 
because  it  was  set  out  on  the  very  day  when 
he  was  five  years  old,  and  he  himself  with  his 
own  little  spade  helped  fill  in  the  earth  round 
the  roots,  and  stamped  it  down,  while  Quick, 
his  dog,  barked  at  him. 

"  You  needu'f  laugh,  Quick,"  said  he,  "  for  I 
am  to  have  all  the  apples  that  grow  on  this 
tree ; "  and  then  he  ran  off  to  quarrel  with 
Quick,  for  they  both  liked  that  exceedingly. 
Not  far  from  the  tree  was  the  plaster  statue  of 
a  young  man  leaning  on  a  hoe,  —  Old  Hoe,  as 
Rob  called  him,  —  though  he  was  not  so  very 
old,  and  yet  he  leaned  with  such  a  wise  air, 
and  looked  abroad  so  seriously,  that  it  was  gen- 
erally said  in  the  garden,  —  It  is  Old  Hoe  who 
has  scraped  up  the  earth  —  everything  grows 
because  he  made  the  ground  ready  —  and  now 
he  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  the  trees 
and  flowers,  and  think  about  them ; "  and 


GOOD  AND  BAD  APPLES.  167 

when  Rob  and  Quick  and  the  gardener  were 
gone,  Old  Hoe  thought  aloud  as  usual :  — 

"  So,  here  is  a  new-comer,  and  it  is  to  bear 
apples  —  is  it  ?  It  has  a  very  serious  task  be- 
fore it.  It  takes  a  great  deal  to  make  an  ap- 
ple. It  must  rain  just  so  often,  and  the  sun 
must  shine  just  so  many  days,  and  the  wind 
must  not  blow  too  hard,  and  it  must  not  hail 
when  the  blossoms  come.  It  is  a  wonder  that 
there  are  ever  any  apples  at  all;  and  then, 
they  are  picked  and  put  in  a  basket.  Seems 
to  me  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  go  through 
so  many  troubles,  just  to  be  picked  and  put  in 
a  basket." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  asked  the  young 
apple-tree.  Old  Hoe  did  not  answer  ;  he 
never  was  known  to  join  in  talk  with  others. 
The  world  might  hear,  if  it  liked,  when  he 
spoke  out,  but  he  had  too  many  thoughts  in 
his  head  to  allow  him  merely  to  make  conver- 
sation. The  sun  shone,  the  rain  fell,  the  wind 
blew,  there  was  hail  and  snow  and  ice,  and  by 
and  by  six  blossoms  came  upon  the  little  apple- 
tree  ;  and  after  the  blossoms  came  just  two 
apples,  for  the  other  four  blossoms  came  to 
uothing.  Two  rosy  apples  !  the  little  tree  was 
proud  of  them. 

"  Ah  !  two  apples,"  said  Old  Hoe  one  day  ; 


168  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  they  are  not  very  large  either.  Seems  to  me 
it  is  rather  a  small  affair  for  the  wind,  and  the 
sun,  and  the  rain,  and  this  apple-tree,  to  work 
so  hard  and  only  make  two  apples.  Why 
should  not  everything-  make  everything  bigger 
than  itself?  "  and  Old  Hoe  stared  down  the 
garden.  A  hen  just  then  laid  an  egg  under 
the  hedge,  and  was  off  telling  her  neighbors. 
"  Now  that  hen  made  an  egg,"  Old  Hoe  went 
on ;  "  but  seems  to  me  the  egg  ought  to  have 
made  the  hen."  He  was  puzzled,  but  nobody 
would  suspect  it,  for  he  looked  very  grave. 
The  little  apple-tree,  meanwhile,  was  lifting  up 
her  head  bravely,  and  holding  out  her  two  ap- 
ples at  arm's  length,  on  opposite  sides,  so  that 
they  could  not  well  see  each  other.  They  could 
talk,  however,  though  they  had  not  much  to 
say.  They  were  twins. 

"  Brother,"  said  One  to  the  Other,  "  how 
do  you  grow  to-day  ?  Do  you  feel  pretty  mel- 
low?" 

"  I  can't  yet  feel  very  warm,"  said  the  Other, 
"  but  then  the  sun  is  not  very  high.  How  de- 
lightful it  is  to  be  getting  riper  every  day.  I 
only  hope  we  shall  not  be  picked  too  soon.  I 
should  like  to  be  perfectly  ripe  first." 

"  Well,  brother,"  said  One,  with  hesitation, 
"I  —  I  do  not  perfectly  agree  with  you.  I  be- 


GOOD  AND  BAD  APPLES.  169 

gin  to  think  that  we  have  made  a  little  mis- 
take, and  that  there  is  something-  besides  get- 
ting ripe  and  being  picked  and  put  in  a  basket. 
In  fact,"  said  he,  speaking  more  confidently, 
"  I  know  that  there  is  something  better,  for  I 
am  already  beginning  to  enjoy  it." 

"  Why,  how  can  that  be  ?"  asked  the  Other. 
"  We  get  the  sun  and  the  air  and  the  sap,  and 
so  we  grow  warm  and  ripe.  Come !  is  there 
anything  better?  what  is  your  secret?  " 

"  It  is  not  easily  told,"  said  One,  mysteri- 
ously, "  but  you  shall  hear  something.  Yes- 
terday afternoon,  as  I  was  beginning  to  dread 
the  night,  I  heard  something  on  the  twig,  and 
pretty  soon  felt  it  on  my  stem  ;  it  came  slowly 
down  until  it  was  firmly  on  me.  '  Who  may 
you  be  ?  '  said  I,  a  little  angrily,  I  must  con- 
fess. '  Do  not  be  disturbed,  good  sir,'  said  a 
soft  voice ;  '  I  am  a  friend  come  to  visit  you. 
You  will  be  the  better  for  me,  I  assure  you.  I 
am  Tid,  the  worm.'  I  had  never  heard  of  him 
before,  but  he  was  so  soft  and  comfortable  in 
his  ways,  that  I  knew  he  was  a  friend  at  once, 
and  so  I  welcomed  him.  *  It  is  lonely  enough 
here,'  said  I,  '  for  my  brother  never  can  come 
to  see  me,  and  my  only  amusement  is  when 
the  wind  blows,  and  I  get  a  chance  to  rock 
back  and  forth  and  that  is  sometimes  a  little 


170  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

too  bard.'  '  Just  so,'  said  Tid.  '  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you  some  time  on  the  grass  below, 
hoping  some  windy  day  you  might  fall  off  and 
come  to  see  me,  for  it  is  very  bard  work  climb- 
ing so  high.  I  have  waited  long  enough,  and 
now  I  am  here,  glad  to  get  to  my  journey's 
end.'  At  that,  Tid  stood  on  his  head,  I  thought. 
'  What  are  you  doing,  Tid  ?  '  said  I.  '  I  am 
going,'  said  he,  '  to  bring  you  a  new  pleasure. 
Have  a  care ;  don't  joggle  me  off.'  Brother, 
those  were  his  exact  words." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Other,  "  and  what  is  the 
new  pleasure.  Is  it  to  walk  round  on  you  and 
keep  you  warm  ?  " 

"  Better  than  that,"  said  One.  "  Do  you 
know,  if  you  could  look  round  here,  you  would 
n't  see  Tid  ?  " 

"  Not  see  him  !  has  he  gone  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  One,  bursting  out  with  it ; 
"  he  has  gone  in  !  he  has  gone  in !  " 

"  Gone  in  !  " 

"  You  know  I  told  you  I  thought  Tid  was 
standing  on  his  head ;  so  he  was ;  and  he  be- 
gan to  make  a  little  hole  in  me,  not  far  from 
the  stem,  and  put  his  head  in,  and  so,  deeper 
and  deeper,  till  now,  my  dear  brother,  Tid  is 
entirely  inside  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  Other,  "  do  you  call  thai 
pleasant  ?  " 


GOOD  AND  BAD  APPLES.  171 

"Pleasant !  "  cried  One.  "  Growing  ripe  is 
nothing  to  it.  Why,  there  is  Tid,  comfortable 
little  soul,  burrowing  and  burrowing,  and  the 
further  in  he  goes,  the  easier  it  is  for  the  sun 
to  get  inside,  you  know ;  but  the  warmth  is 
not  the  great  pleasure;  it's  the  tickling!  the 
tickling!  Tid  is  tickling  me  all  the  time,  and  I 
sit  here  and  laugh." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  Other,  "  and  Tid  is 
doing  all  this  for  you ;  and  how  does  he  like 
it?" 

"  There !  I  just  hear  him  talking  to  him- 
self. Hark!" 

"Well,  what  does  Tid  say?"  asked  the 
Other. 

"  He  says,  —  *  Munch,  munch  !  I  must  be 
getting  toward  the  core.  I  have  not  had  such 
a  feast  this  long  while.  I  came  just  at  the 
right  time.  The  apple  and  I  will  get  ripe  to- 
gether. I  shall  go  on,  too,  after  picking-time 
comes.'  There !  do  you  hear  that  ?  You  see 
Tid  and  I  are  not  going  to  stop  when  I  get 
ripe." 

"  I  don't  know  about  this,"  said  the  Other. 
"Why,  Tid  's  hollowing  you  out  —  isn't  he? 
and  suppose  he  leaves  nothing  but  your  skin  ?  " 

"  All  I  know  is,"  said  One  sharply,  "  that  I 
$et  a  new  delight  all  the  while,  and  don't  put 


172  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

off  my  pleasure  till  I  am  picked  and  put  iu  a 
basket."  The  Other  was  silent,  but  he  kept 
thinking,  and  the  more  he  thought,  the  more 
sure  he  was  that  he  should  not  wish  a  visit 
from  Tid.  That  went  on  for  several  days,  and 
they  agreed  less  and  less  whenever  they  fell  to 
talking. 

"  Halloo  !  "  cried  One,  one  day,  "  what  do 
you  think  ?  I  am  getting  popular.  Tid's 
friends  missed  him,  and  now  they  have  come 
• — three  more,  uncommonly  like  Tid.  They 
have  all  gone  in,  too,  and  each  by  different 
holes." 

"  I  must  speak  out,"  said  the  Other.  "  I 
am  certain  that  it  is  all  wrong,  and  I  do  be- 
seech you,  brother,  to  get  rid  of  Tid  and  his 
relations.  There  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  One.  "  I  understand  you 
perfectly ;  if,  now,  Tid  had  visited  you  —  but 
we  will  say  no  more  ;  "  and  so  for  several  days 
nothing  more  was  said  ;  nothing  by  them,  that 
is,  for  Old  Hoe  at  length  spoke  out :  — 

"  Seems  to  me  strange  that  those  apples  do 
not  do  anything  to  get  ripe.  They  just  hang 
and  hang.  I  could  hang,  but  should  I  be  the 
better  for  that  ?  Seems  to  me  if  they  were  to 
get  down  and  roll  round  on  the  ground,  they 
would  be  doing  something,  —  would  be  getting 


GOOD  AND  BAD  APPLES.  173 

on  with  their  ripening.  There  is  the  gardener; 
if  he  were  to  stand  still  all  day,  would  the 
garden  take  care  of  itself?" 

The  gardener  was  at  this  moment  coming 
up  toward  the  tree ;  perhaps  the  twins  saw 
him ;  at  any  rate  One  called  out  with  a  faint 
voice,  — 

"  Brother,  a  word  with  you.  I  feel  exceed- 
ingly weak." 

"  Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! "  said  the  Other. 
"  We  must  be  quite  ripe  now ;  we  shall  soon 
be  picked  and  put  in  a  basket." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  very  well ;  but  as  for  me,  I 
must  confess  it,  I  have  been  growing  weaker 
every  day.  Tid  and  his  relations  have  been 
all  through  me,  and  I  cannot  tell  why,  but  I 
feel  very  disagreeably.  Somehow  all  the  pleas- 
ure is  gone,  and  I  have  headache  perpetually." 
Just  here  the  gardener  came  up  to  the  tree, 
and  Rob  and  Quick  came  running  to  him  from 
the  other  side  of  the  garden. 

"  Daniel,  are  they  ripe,  do  you  think  ?  May 
I  pick  them  ?  "  asked  Rob. 

"  Well,  Master  Rob,"  said  he,  "  you'll  not 
get  two ;  one  is  all  worm-eaten,  but  t'other  is 
*  rosy,  ripe  apple."  He  picked  them  both  and 
tossed  one  away,  but  the  other  he  gave  to  Rob. 
Quick  darted  after  the  apple  that  was  thrown 
iiway  ;  he  snuffed  at  it,  but  let  it  alone. 


174  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  Here,  here,  Quick  !  "  said  Rob  :  "  That  is  a 
bad  apple.  This  is  a  good  one,"  and  he  ran 
off,  holding  it  up,  while  Quick  bounded  after 
him.  The  gardener,  too,  went  off,  and  no  one 
was  left  but  Old  Hoe. 

"  This  is  the  end  —  eh  ?  "  said  he.  "  One  is 
thrown  away  and  the  other  is  picked ;  it  should 
have  been  put  in  a  basket.  It  is  pretty  hard 
to  have  so  much  trouble,  and  then  not  get  all 
one's  deserts.  Why  was  it  not  put  in  a  bas- 
ket ? "  The  apple  thrown  away  had  rolled 
quite  near  Old  Hoe,  and  he  now  saw  it.  "  So 
this  was  a  bad  apple  !  Why,  what  had  it  done  ? 
it  had  all  the  rain  and  sun  like  the  other,  and 
it  was  picked.  It  was  not  put  in  a  basket,  but 
neither  was  the  other.  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  apple.  "  If  I  had 
joggled  Tid  off  when  he  first  came,  as  I  might 
have  done,  all  would  have  been  well,  but  now 
it  is  all  over.  O  dear,  they  are  all  going  about 
again  !  and  I  have  such  a  headache."  In  a 
few  moments  Tid  and  his  relations  had  put 
their  heads  out  of  their  several  doors. 

"  What's  this  ?  "  said  Tid.  "  We  were  all 
living  peaceably.  What  have  you  been  doing 
to  shake  us  about  so  ?  I  nearly  had  a  fit.  Aha ! 
I  see ;  friends,  we  are  on  the  ground  once 
more.  Come,  I  like  this.  I  was  beginning  to 


GOOD  AND  BAD  APPLES.  175 

dread  climbing1  down  the  tree,  and  there's  not 
much  left  here.  But  we'll  finish  what  we  have 
begun,"  and,  so  saying,  all  crawled  in  again. 

Old  Hoe  heard  this  also,  but  was  too  as- 
tonished to  do  anything  but  lean  on  his  in- 
strument and  stare  off  into  the  garden.  Per- 
haps he  would  have  been  more  puzzled  if  he 
could  have  followed  Rob  with  his  apple.  Rob 
ran  into  the  house,  and  fetching  a  string  from 
his  pocket,  he  tied  one  end  to  the  stem  of  the 
apple,  and  so  hung  it  over  the  fire,  twirling  it 
round  and  round.  The  apple  was  a  little  dizzy 
at  first,  but  in  a  moment  was  perfectly  de- 
lighted at  such  a  dance  as  he  led ;  the  pleasure 
he  had  felt  when  the  wind  blew  him  was  noth- 
ing to  this.  Then  the  heat  of  the  fire  began 
to  warm  him  and  to  creep  deliciously  through 
and  through  ;  why,  the  brightest  sunshine  had 
never  so  made  him  glow.  The  little  apple 
laughed  and  shook  with  merriment ;  he  could 
not  keep  in,  and  actually  burst  his  sides  out 
with  joy,  all  the  while  humming  a  tune,  being 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  sung  in  his  life,  and 
this  was  the  song  that  Little  Apple  sung :  — 

"All  summer  long 

I  sang  no  song 
Upon  the  green-leaved  tree : 

But  let  the  sun 

Sing,  one  by  one, 
The  summer  songs  to  me. 


176  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  The  songs  I  hid 
My  seeds  amid, 

Until  they  eager  grew: 
My  lips,  alas! 
They  could  not  pass, 

To  sing  themselves  anew. 

"Then  bright  flames  leapt 
To  where  I  kept 

My  pretty  songs  in  (  age  : 
They  hurst  the  bars 
With  glad  ha,  ha's! 

And  mocked  at  my  old  age. 

"  Out  flew  the  songs, 
The  summer  songs ; 

And  now  they  sing  to  me 
The  joys  I  knew 
All  summer  through, 

Upon  the  apple-tree." 


THREE  WISE    LITTLE   BOYS. 

CHRISTMAS  always  falls  on  the  twenty-fifth 
of  December,  even  if  it  is  leap  year,  which 
joggles  the  almanac  so,  and  sometimes  the 
twenty-fifth  is  Sunday;  and  so  it  happened  one 
year  that  in  the  little  village  of  Blessington, 
Christinas  and  Sunday  and  the  twenty-fifth  of 
December  all  fell  on  the  same  day  ;  and  more 
than  that,  little  Jacob  Olds's  birthday  was  on 
the  same  day ;  and  when  I  tell  you  that  little 
Jacob  was  exactly,  to  a  day,  one  year  younger 
than  his  brothers  John  and  Peter  Olds,  you 
will  see  what  a  great  occasion  it  was  when  the 
twenty-fifth  of  December,  and  Christinas,  and 
Sunday,  and  little  Jacob's  birthday,  and  John's 
birthday,  and  Peter's  birthday,  all  happened 
together :  and  0,  one  thing  more  —  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Olds  were  married  on  Christmas  eight 
years  before,  and  this  was  leap  year.  I  suppose 
it  is  not  very  often  that  such  a  Christmas  hap- 
pens. 

The  evening  before  this  Christmas,  John 
12 


173  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

and  Peter  and  little  Jacob  were  playing  about 
their  father  and  mother  ju.st  before  bed-time. 
The  pretty  room  was  nicely  furnished,  for  there 
was  Mr.  Olds  with  his  newspaper,  pretending 
to  read,  and  Mrs.  Olds  with  her  sewing,  pre- 
tending to  sew,  and  Peter  and  John  and  little 
Jacob  playing  about  like  three  little  kittens. 
Little  Jacob  finally  climbed  into  his  father's 
lap  and  pretended  to  read  the  newspaper  too. 
There  was  a  long  column  of  print  all  about  the 
financial  difficulties  of  Austria,  and  Jaky  read  it 
aloud  to  his  father  somewhat  thus,  with  his  fat 
finger  moving  over  the  lines  :  — 

"  On  Christmas  morning  children  have  pres- 
ents from  their  papas  and  mammas.  Some- 
times they  are  in  stockings,  but  ours  are  on  a 
big  table.  Some  boys  like  books,  but  I  like  a 
sled.  I  think  my  papa  will  give  me  a  sled,"  — 
here  he  had  nearly  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
column,  he  read  so  fast,  and  so  he  ended  up, 
• —  "  and  we  wish  you  all  a  merry  Christmas. 
Yours  truly,  Jacob  Olds  and  Company." 

"  O,  is  that  in  the  newspaper  ?  "  asked  Peter, 
who  had  been  listening.  "  Why,  that's  my 
father's  name." 

"  Pooh,  you  goose,"  said  John,  who  was  ex- 
actly of  the  same  age,  but  always  treated  Peter 
as  if  he  were  years  younger,  "  that's  Jaky.  He 
made  it  up." 


THREE   WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  179 

"  0,"  said  Peter,  who  was  not  very  quick, 
"  I  thought  he  was  reading-.  Mamma,  what 
is  Christmas,  any  way  ?  It  isn't  Sunday,  is 
it?" 

"  I  know,"  said  John.  "  It's  the  day  when 
presents  are  given.  You  have  to  say  '  Merry 
Christmas  '  to  everybody,  and  the  one  who  gets 
up  first  and  says  it,  is  the  best  fellow." 

"  Then  I'll  get  up  first,"  said  Peter.  "  You 
wake  me,  will  you,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Hoh,"  said  John,  "  you're  great.  If 
mother  wakes  up  first  she'll  say  it." 

"  Any  way,"  said  Peter,  "  we're  going  to 
have  a  great  dinner.  I  heard  Becky  say  so, 
and  she  says  folks  always  have  a  great  dinner 
on  Christmas." 

"Becky  knows  ever  so  much,"  said  little 
Jacob.  She  knows  a  lot  she  won't  tell.  She 
knows  something  about  Christmas  that's  a  se- 
cret, I  guess.  I  said  Christmas  was  my  birth- 
day "- 

"  It's  my  birthday  too,"  said  Peter,  who 
wanted  to  have  everything  that  anybody  else 
had. 

"  Well,  it's  mine,  too,"  said  John.  "  Any- 
body'd  think  you  owned  it.  Does  Christinas 
always  come  on  Sunday,  father  ?  To-morrow  '& 
Sunday." 


180  BEFORE    THE  FIRE. 

"  It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  Sunday," 
said  Mr.  Olds.  "  It  only  happens  so.'* 

"  Becky  says,"  went  on  Jacob,  "  that  she's 
always  glad  when  Christmas  conies  on  Sunday, 
and  when  I  asked  her  why,  she  said  because 
somebody  she  knew  about  was  born  on  Christ- 
mas, and  liked  Sunday.  I  don't  think  that's 
much." 

At  this  moment  Becky  herself,  the  old 
nurse,  appeared  in  the  doorway  to  lead  the 
children  to  bed.  They  went  frolicking  up- 
stairs, and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Olds  were  left  alone. 
Mrs.  Olds  stitched  on  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  looked  timidly  at  her  husband,  who 
sat  behind  the  newspaper. 

"  My  heart  misgives  me,  Jacob,"  said  she. 
"  I  don't  know,  I  sometimes  think  it  would  be 
better  if  the  children  were  to  know  —  to  know 
something  about  what  people  generally  know 
—  what  they  read  in  the  Bible." 

"  Becky  hasn't  been  telling  them  any  stories 
out  of  the  Bible,  has  she  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Olds, 
impatiently.  "  I  told  her  when  she  came,  that 
if  I  ever  found  her  telling  religious  stuff  to  my 
children,  she  should  leave  at  once.  I'm  not 
going  to  have  her  putting  nonsense  into  their 
heads.  I  intend  they  shall  grow  up  rationally 
and  make  up  their  minds  for  themselves,  with- 
out any  prejudice." 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  181 

"  I  don't  think  she  has,"  said  his  wife,  with 
a  doubtful  look  on  her  face.  "  You  see  how  she 
checked  herself  when  Jaky  asked  her  about 
Christmas.  She  feels  pretty  badly,  though, 
about  it." 

"  Let  her,"  said  Mr.  Olds,  pushing  his  spec- 
tacles hard  down  on  his  nose.  "  It's  not  her 
concern,  at  least." 

Becky  had  taken  the  three  children  to  the 
room  in  which  they  all  slept  in  their  little  beds, 
and  had  tucked  them  in,  and  then,  as  was  her 
wont,  had  got  down  upon  her  poor  old  knees 
and  prayed  hastily  within  herself  that  the  Lord 
would  bless  the  darlings,  and  send  somebody  to 
teach  them ;  while  the  children,  as  usual,  kept 
still,  because  Becky  was  looking  under  the  beds, 
as  they  thought,  to  see  if  anybody  was  there, 
and  their  little  hearts  were  always  in  a  little 
fright  till  Becky  got  up  again  and  kissed  them, 
and  told  them  that  they  might  go  to  sleep,  for 
somebody  was  watching  over  them,  and  would 
keep  them  safe ;  and  as  they  always  found 
Becky  there  when  they  woke  up,  they  had  no 
doubt  she  was  the  Somebody,  and  Peter  when 
he  heard  Becky  say  somebody  was  watching 
over  them,  secretly  thought  that  Becky  herself 
climbed  up  on  the  bed-post  and  sat  there  all 
night,  where  she  could  see  them  all,  and  could 
keep  off  danger. 


182  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

But  this  night  the  children  were  wide  awake, 
and  begged  Becky  to  stay  and  tell  them  a  story, 
or  sing  a  song.  The  poor  old  thing  had  her 
head  full  of  Bible  stories  and  hymns,  but  she 
had  been  forbidden  to  tell  them  to  the  children, 
and  so  she  had  to  fall  back  on  the  days  of  her 
childhood,  when  she  lived  in  a  little  village  of 
England. 

"  Tell  us  what  you  used  to  do  when  you 
were  a  little  girl,"  said  John. 

"  Sing  us  a  song,"  said  Peter. 

"  I  know,"  said  little  Jacob ;  "  tell  us  about 
Christmas,  Becky.  Tell  us  about  the  man  that 
had  his  birthday  then,  and  liked  Sunday.  You 
know  " 

"  Who  was  it  ?  "  asked  Peter. 

"  It  was  somebody,"  began  poor  Becky,  at 
her  wit's  end  how  to  tell  what  she  longed  to 
tell,  without  disobeying,  and  so  making  a  sad 
mystery  of  it  all. 

"  0,  was  it  Somebody,"  cried  Peter,  "  Some- 
body who  watches  over  us  ?  But  you're  a 
woman,  Becky." 

"  The  dear  child,"  said  the  puzzled  old  body, 
"  so  1  am.  If  I  was  only  a  man,  like  old  Par- 
sou  Dawes  that  used  to  be  "  — 

"  Tell  us  about  Parson  Dawes,"  struck  in 
John,  who  thought  they  were  not  getting  on 
with  a  story. 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  183 

"Well,  I  will,"  said  old  Becky,  suddenly 
brightening  up,  "  and  I'll  just  tell  you  about 
what  Parson  Dawes  did  when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  Parson  Dawes  he  was  a  good  man,  a  very 
good  man,  but  he  hadn't  no  children  of  his  own, 
and  so  says  he  one  Christmas  time  to  the  chor- 
ister, —  that's  my  father,  children  " 

"  0  Becky,  you're  making  up,"  said  Peter ; 
"  you  haven't  got  any  father." 

"  But  I  had  one,  Peter,  when  I  was  a  little 
girl." 

"Was  it  Somebody?"  asked  John,  who 
thought  that  Beoky  was  always  making  believe 
when  she  spoke  of  Somebody. 

"  The  dear  children,"  murmured  the  old 
woman.  "  Says  he,  says  Parson  Dawes  to  my 
father,  *  Simon,'  he  says,  *  they  used  to  have  a 
custom  for  children  to  go  about  Christmas  Eve 
and  sing  carols.  Now,  you  just  teach  the 
children  to  sing  one,  and  I'll  go  round  with 
the  children  myself  and  sing  it.'  He  was  a 
nice  old  man,  Parson  Dawes,  but  folks  thought 
he  was  rather  queer,  p'raps  because  he  didn't 
have  no  children  of  his  own.  So  my  father,  he 
taught  us  children  a  carol  which  Parson  Dawes 
he  gave  him  ;  and  sure  enough  we  went  round, 
and  Parson  Dawes  he  went  with  us,  and  we 
dang,  and  we  sang  —  O,  it  was  beautiful,"  and 


184  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

nurse  Becky,  forgetting  everything  except 
what  she  was  remembering,  and  forgetting 
her  own  poor  cracked  old  voice,  piped  out  to  a 
sweet  air  the  words  :  — 

"'  God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 

Was  born  upon  this  day, 
To  save  us  all  from  Satan's  power, 

When  we  were  gone  astray. 

"  '  In  Bethlehem,  in  Jewry, 

This  blessed  babe  was  born, 
And  laid  within  a  manger 

Upon  this  blessed  morn  ; 
The  which  his  mother,  Mary, 

Nothing  did  take  in  scorn. 

" '  From  God,  our  Heavenly  Father, 

A  blessed  angel  came, 
And  unto  certain  shepherds 

Brought  tidings  of  the  same, 
How  that  in  Bethlehem  was  born 

The  Son  of  God  by  name. 

"  '  Fear  not,  then  said  the  angel, 

Let  nothing  you  affright, 
This  day  is  born  a  Saviour 

Of  virtue,  power,  and  might ; 
Bo  frequently  to  vanquish  all 

The  friends  of  Satan  quite. 

* '  The  shepherds  at  those  tidings 
Rejoiced  much  in  mind, 


THREE   WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  185 

And  left  their  flocks  a-feeding 

In  tempest,  storm,  and  wind, 
And  went  to  Bethlehem  straightway, 

This  blessed  babe  to  find. 

" '  But  when  to  Bethlehem  they  came, 

Whereas  this  infant  lay, 
They  found  Him  in  a  manger, 

Where  oxen  feed  on  hay, 
His  mother  Mary  kneeling, 

Unto  the  Lord  did  pray. 

" '  Now  to  the  Lord  sing  praise, 

All  you  within  this  place, 
And  with  true  love  and  brotherhood, 

Each  other  now  embrace ; 
This  holy  tide  of  Christinas 
All  others  doth  deface. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy  ! 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day.' " 

"  And  did  Parson  Dawes  sing  it  all  with  the 
children  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  Indeed  he  did,"  said  Becky,  warming  with 
the  recollection.  "  We  just  went  from  one 
house  to  another  a-singing,  and  Parson  Dawes 
he  carried  a  stick  and  pounded  on  the  ground 
when  we  sang.  He  was  just  daft-like,  when 
we  was  a-singing  and  he  took  to  his  bed  that 
very  night,  and  so  he  died." 

This  was  quite  unexpected,  and  Peter  began 
to  cry. 


186  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  What  made  him  die  ?  "  said  he,  whimper- 
ing. "  What  made  Parson  Dawes  die  ?  I  didn't 
want  him  to  die." 

Little  Jacob  had  said  nothing,  but  his  busy 
little  head  was  trying  to  put  together  what 
nurse  had  said  and  sung. 

"  Nurse,"  said  he,  "  do  please  sing  that 
again.  That  part  about  the  shepherds." 

So  Becky  sang  again  :  — 

" '  The  shepherds  at  those  tidings 

Rejoiced  much  in  mind, 
And  left  their  flocks  a-feeding 

In  tempest,  storm,  and  wind, 
And  went  to  Bethlehem  straightway. 
This  blessed  babe  to  find. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy ! 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day. 

" '  But  when  to  Bethlehem  they  came, 

Whereas  this  infant  lay. 
They  found  him  in  a  manger, 

Where  oxen  feed  on  hay, 
His  mother  Mary  kneeling, 

Unto  the  Lord  did  pray.' " 

"  But  what  made  them  go  to  Bethlem  ?  " 
asked  John.  "  What's  Bethlem  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  where  the  babe  was,"  said  little 
Jacob.  "  Don't  you  see?  " 

"  The  little  babe  that  was  born,  was  Jesu? 


THREE   WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  187 

Christ  the  Lord,"  said  old  Becky  reverently, 
clasping  her  hands  and  lifting  up  her  face. 
"  And  He  was  the  Lord  of  glory  who  had  come 
,down  on  earth  to  live,  and  He  was  born  a  little 
babe  in  a  manger,  and  when  the  shepherds 
they  came,  they  found  the  little  babe  a-lying  in 
the  manger;  and  the  little  babe  grew  up,  and 
He  healed  the  sick,  and  He  taught  us  about 
God  and  heaven,  and  then  wicked  men  killed 
Him,  and  then  He  died  for  us  —  poor  little 
children,"  —  broke  out  old  Becky,  choking 
dow*  her  sobs  ;  "  and  I  wasn't  to  tell  you,  but 
I  couldn't  help  it  if  I  was  -to  leave  this  night 
—  there  !  "  And  the  old  nurse  threw  herself 
down  on  her  knees,  and  wept  and  prayed  aloud 
that  the  good  Lord  would  teach  the  little  ig- 
norant ones,  and  tell  them  about  Jesus  when 
Becky  left. 

"  O,  don't  go,"  said  Jaky,  "  don't  go,  nurse. 
We  don't  want '  Good  Lord ; '  we  want  you.  I'm 
going  to  sing  that  over  again,"  and  he  tried  to 
sing  the  verse  that  had  been  snug  last.  He 
came  pretty  near  it,  and  the  other  children 
took  hold  with  great  eagerness,  and  insisted 
on  singing  it  too.  They  had  sweet  voices,  and 
pretty  soon  old  Becky  with  her  cracked  voice, 
and  the  three  children,  were  all  singing  to- 
gether. 


188  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

But  Becky  began  to  be  troubled,  and  said 
she  must  not  stay  any  longer,  and  that  the 
children  must  go  to  sleep.  So  she  kissed  them 
once  more  and  went  out  softly.  The  children 
could  not  go  to  sleep,  they  were  so  excited. 

"  It  was  a  secret,"  said  John.  "  She  said 
she  wasn't  to  tell.  I  guess  father  and  mother 
were  keeping  it  for  a  surprise." 

"  I  guess  it  was  Somebody  that  was  born," 
said  Peter.  "And  then  He  died,  just  like  Par- 
son Dawes." 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  heard  them  all  sing," 
said  little  Jacob  ;  "  it  must  have  sounded  like 
what  the  shepherds  heard." 

"  I  say,"  said  John,  in  a  hurried  whisper. 
"Let's  us." 

"What?  "  said  little  Jacob,  starting  up. 

"  Let's  us  sing,"  said  John. 

"  Well,"  said  Peter,  beginning,  — 

" '  The  shepherds  at  those  tidings ' "  — 

"  No,  no,"  said  John,  impatiently.  "  Peter, 
Peter,  I  don't  mean  here,  but  let's  play  we 
were  Parson  Dawes  and  the  children.  I'll  be 
Parson  Dawes  and  you  be  the  children,  and 
we'll  sing,  just  as  they  did." 

"  0  do,"  said  little  Jacob  eagerly,  and  he 
bounced  out  of  bed.  "  Johnny,  Johnny,  we'l* 
put  on  our  things  and  go  out,  and  nobody  will 
near  us,  and  then  we'll  sing." 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  189 

So  the  three  children  dressed  hurriedly  in 
the  dark,  Peter  much  wondering1  in  his  puzzled 
head  whether  John,  when  he  got  through,  was 
going  to  take  to  his  bed  and  die,  like  Parson 
Dawes.  They  groped  about,  talking  to  each 
other  in  loud  whispers,  and  putting  on  their 
clothes  in  all  sorts  of  new  ways.  At  last  all 
were  dressed,  except  that  Peter  could  not  lace 
his  shoe,  so  he  let  the  lacing  go  dragging  after 
him. 

"We  can't  get  our  hats,"  said  John.  "  I  tell 
you  what.  We'll  take  blankets." 

So  each  of  the  children  took  a  blanket  off 
the  bed  and  wrapped  it  round  himself  and  over 
his  head,  and  so  with  suppressed  giggles  the 
three  little  blanketed  figures  stole  down-stairs 
and  out-of-doors.  There  was  no  snow  on  the 
hard  ground ;  there  was  no  moonlight  either, 
but  the  bright  stars  were  shining  as  they 
stepped  forth,  shutting  the  door  noiselessly  be- 
hind them. 

"  Parson  Dawes  had  a  stick,"  said  Peter, 
"and  he  pounded  with  it  when  the  children 
sang.  You  haven't  got  any  stick,  John." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  he  triumphantly,  show- 
ing a  hearth-broom  which  he  had  concealed 
ander  his  blanket.  "  I  thought  of  it.  I'm 
Parson  Dawes.  Now,  children,  when  I  begin 
to  pound,  we  must  all  sing." 


190  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

They  were  standing-  under  the  window  of  the 
room  where  they  had  hade  their  father  and 
mother  good-night.  The  curtain  was  dropped, 
but  a  bright  light  was  behind  it.  Iii  vain,  how- 
ever, the  children  sang,  and  Parson  Dawes 
pounded.  No  one  came  to  the  window. 

"  Papa  !  mamma !  "  shouted  Peter.  "  See 
us!  we're  Parson  Dawes  and  the  children." 

"  Sh  !  "  said  little  Jacob.  "  That  isn't  the 
way.  Let's,  go  to  Mr.  Lirry's." 

Mr.  Lirry  lived  next  door,  and  again  did 
Parson  Dawes  and  his  choir  sing  and  pound  in 
vain.  They  tried  the  next  street.  A  wagon 
drove  by,  and  the  man  in  it  stopped  and  turned 
to  look  at  the  three  queer  little  figures. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Peter,  beginning  to  run 
down  a  side  street.  John  and  little  Jacob  were 
not  afraid,  but  they  ran  after  him,  and  the  man 
in  the  wagon  drove  off  in  another  direction, 
but  they  thought  he  was  chasing  them,  so  they 
all  ran  in  good  earnest ;  but  the  noise  of  the 
wheels  died  away,  and  they  came  to  a  halt  by  a 
stone  wall. 

"  0  Peter,  what  made  you  run  ?  "  said  John, 
all  out  of  breath. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  "  said  Peter.  But  it  was 
BO  dark,  and  they  had  got  so  bewildered  with 
the  run,  that  the  poor  little  things  could  not 
.ell. 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  191 

"We  must  turn  round  and  go  back,"  said 
John,  clinging1  to  his  hearth-brush,  and  deter- 
mined, like  a  brave  little  fellow,  that  he  \vould 
defend  them.  They  began  to  sing  again,  and 
somehow  the  stars  shone  so  brightly,  and  the 
music  sounded  so  sweetly,  that  they  walked 
along  without  fear,  and  even  Peter  began  to 
chatter  about  many  things. 

"  This  is  just  the  night,"  said  little  Jacob, 
"to  find  a  babe  in.  I  shouldn't  wonder,  no, 
I  shouldn't  wonder  one  bit,  if  we  were  to  see 
some  shepherds,  and  should  find  a  barn,  and 
there  in  the  manger  would  be  a  babe.  Only 
think  of  it.  Wouldn't  Becky  be  glad  ?  " 

"  She  said  there  was  a  star  over  it,"  said 
Peter,  "  a  bright  star,  and  it  was  right  over 
the  place.  I  don't  see  where  we  are,  and  I'm 
cold." 

"  I  see  a  barn,"  said  little  Jacob.  "  Yes,  I 
see  it  plainly,  and  0  !  what  a  bright  star ;  and 
it  is  growing  brighter  too." 

And  indeed  just  at  that  moment  it  did  seem 
as  if  a  particularly  bright  star  shone  above  the 
barn.  The  children  were  all  alive  with  eager- 
ness as  they  came  up  to  it. 

"  What  if  we  should  go  right  in  and  find 
him  there  !  "  said  little  Jacob,  his  eyes  starting 
out  of  his  head.  "  Johnny,  we  must  sing  the 
song." 


192  BEFORE   "HE  FIRE. 

Then  they  stood  by  the  barn  and  sang  the 
verses,  Peter  holding  on  to  little  Jacob,  and 
John  striking  the  ground  with  his  stick  like 
Parson  Dawes.  They  lifted  the  latch  of  the 
door  and  peered  in.  It  was  darker  in  there 
than  out,  but  it  was  warmer,  and  so,  creeping 
in,  they  closed  the  door  after  them.  Peter 
clung  close  to  little  Jacob,  and  now  as  they 
stood  there,  their  little  hearts  beating,  a  light 
began  to  fill  the  place  gently,  and  their  eyes 
becoming  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  they 
began  to  make  out  things.  There  stood  some 
oxen,  and  there  too  were  some  sheep,  all  lying 
in  their  pens  and  stalls.  The  light  that  came 
was  the  rising  moon,  which  rose  higher  and 
higher,  sending  its  light  through  a  great 
easterly  window.  The  children  crept  up  to  a 
manger,  and  peered  eagerly  and  yet  timidly 
over. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  not  come  yet,"  said  John. 
"  Let's  wait." 

There  was  a  hay-cart  standing  on  the  barn- 
floor  half  filled  with  hay,  and  into  this  the  three 
little  children  clambered  and  lay  close  together, 
waiting  till  the  Child  should  appear. 

It  was  about  the  time  that  the  three  children 
were  clambering  up  into  the  hay-cart  that  Mr 
and  Mrs.  Olds,  who  had  been  taking  little  naps 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  193 

all  the  evening,  thought  it  as  well  to  go  to  bed 
once  for  all.  Mrs.  Olds  indeed  had  felt  that 
she  would  gladly  go  and  sleep  off'  the  uncom- 
fortable thoughts  that  began  to  visit  her. 

"  Jacob,"  said  she,  "  it  was  eight  Christmases 
ago  that  we  were  married." 

"  Well,  Rachel,"  said  he,  good-hurnoredly, 
as  he  took  off  his  spectacles,  "  I  expect  you  will 
give  us  a  first-rate  dinner  in  honor  of  the 
day." 

"  Yes,  and  it's  the  children's  birthday,  too, 
and  Christmas.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  notion 
they  have  of  Christmas  ?  " 

"  A  very  correct  notion,"  said  Mr.  Olds, 
restlessly,  —  "a  day  of  frolic,  of  giving  and 
receiving  presents,  and  eating  plum-pudding. 
They  shall  have  a  merry  Christmas." 

"  Won't  they  come  to  ask  why  it  all  happened 
on  Christmas-day  ? "  continued  the  mother, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Well,  wife,  they'll  learn  it  all  by  and  by, 
when  they  study  history ;  and  they  won't  have 
any  nonsensical  notions  about  it." 

At  this  moment  Annie,  the  maid,  came  to 
say  that  Becky,  the  nurse,  would  like  to  speak 
to  the  master  and  mistress,  if  she  might,  and 
right  behind  came  Becky,  with  her  eyes  very 
red,  and  her  hands  twitching  at  her  dress. 

13 


194  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  Come  in,  Becky ;  what  is  it  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Olds. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  must  a-go." 

"  Why,  don't  we  treat  you  well  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Olds  in  surprise. 

"  O  Mr.  Olds  —  I  could'nt  help  it,  ma'am ; 
but  when  those  darling  children  asked  me 
about  Christinas,  and  I  got  to  telling  them 
about  the  hymn  which  we  children  used  to 
sing  with  Parson  Dawes  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  I  couldn't  help  it,  sir ;  but  0,  I  told  them 
about  the  Babe  that  lay  in  the  manger,  and 
how  the  shepherds  heard  the  angels  sing,  and 
the  Wise  Men  of  the  East,  how  they  came  and 
brought  presents ;  and  0,  Mrs.  Olds,  I  couldn't 
a-bear  that  the  darling  children  shouldn't  hear 
about  the  blessed  Jesus,  who  said,  *  Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,'  and  you  don't  let 
them  go ;  and  I  thought,  says  I,  if  the  Lord 
asks  me,  Becky,  why  didn't  you  let  them  come  ? 
vhat  made  you  a-hinder  them,  —  and  so  I  told 
them,  and  now  I'll  go,  sir,  as  I  heard  you  said 
I  must ; "  and  the  poor  old  woman,  who  had 
rushed  through  her  words  which  she  had  been 
all  the  evening  making  up  her  mind  to  say, 
quite  broke  down,  and  sobbed  into  the  lap  of 
her  great  gown. 

Mr.  Olds  walked  up  and  down  the  room  un 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  195 

easily,  and  Mrs.  Olds,  half  ready  to  cry  and 
half  ready  to  be  downright  angry  with  Becky, 
stood  still  by  the  fire. 

"I'll  see  you  in  the  morning,"  said  Mr. 
Olds,  giving  his  coat  a  twist,  and  buttoning  it 
about  him,  and  then,  as  Becky  left,  he  turned 
to  his  wife,  — 

"  Come,  Rachel,  we'll  go  to  bed ;  but  first 
we'll  look  in  on  the  children,  to  make  sure  they 
haven't  been  spirited  away  by  some  of  Becky's 
invisible  friends,"  adding  a  worried  little  laugh. 
They  took  their  light  and  went  up-stairs.  They 
entered  the  room. 

"  Merciful  Heavens  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Olds,  and 
Mr.  Olds  roared,  — 

"  Becky !  " 

The  whole  house  was  roused  and  in  a  tumult. 
The  servants  crowded  into  the  room,  and  a 
great  wailing  was  made.  Mr.  Olds,  raising  his 
voice  above  the  din,  while  his  wife  was  dumb 
and  white,  ordered  quiet,  and  striking  Becky 
on  the  shoulder  and  holding  her  at  arm's  leugth 
away,  he  bade  her  tell  him  where  the  children 
were. 

"  Please  God,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  I  left 
them  lying  awake  in  their  beds,  and  I  have  not 
been  in  the  room  since." 

"  She's  been  in  her  room  crying  like  every- 


196  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

thing  the  whole  evening,"  spoke  up  Annie,  the 
maid.  There  was  silence  a  moment,  and  then 
Mr.  Olds  said,  — 

"  None  of  you  leave  the  house." 

It  was  hardly  necessary  to  say  this  ;  not  one 
scarcely  dared  to  leave  the  room,  but  Becky 
said  meekly,  — 

"  Please,  master,  I  must  go.  I  must  find  the 
children." 

Mr.  Olds  said  nothing,  but  went  out  of  the 
room  .with  his  wife.  He  put  on  his  coat,  and 
she  mechanically  dressed  herself,  and  together 
they  went  out  of  the  house,  but  not  alone,  for 
Becky  had  followed,  bearing  a  lantern  in  her 
hand.  They  went  from  one  house  to  another, 
and  the  neighbors  joined  them  in  the  search, 
till  the  whole  village  was  astir. 

"  Neighbor,"  said  Mr.  Lirry,  "  about  what 
time  was  it  you  might  have  missed  your  chil- 
dren ?  " 

"  Nurse  took  them  to  bed  at  seven.  It  is  now 
eleven." 

"  About  seven-and-a-half  o'clock,  or  it  may 
have  been  eight,  Mr.  Olds,  I  heard  some  chil- 
dren singing  outside  the  window,  and  I  says  to 
Mrs.  Lirry,  *  There  are  children  singing ; '  but 
then  it  stopped,  and  when  I  went  to  the  window 
I  heard  nothing.  I  remember  the  time,  for 


THREE   WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  197 

Henry  just  afterward  started  for  Compton.  It 
was  just  before  the  moon  rose.  Henry  said  he 
should  have  a  good  moon  when  he  came  back. 
I  thought  it  was  he  when  you  came  in.  There 
he  is  now,"  and  a  wagon  drove  toward  them, 
and  the  horse  was  reined  in  at  such  a  strange 
concourse  of  people. 

"  Henry,"  said  Mr.  Olds,  huskily,  "  have 
you  met  anybody?  My  children  are  lost." 

"  What !  John  and  Peter  and  Jaky  !  Stop  ! 
what  time  was  it  ?  "  and  then  he  told  how  as 
he  was  driving  off  he  heard  some  voices  singing, 
and  he  stopped  and  listened,  and  saw  three 
figures  in  a  sort  of  whitey-brown  covering,  who 
chased  each  other  down  the  Morris  road,  and 
he  went  on. 

"That's  them,  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Lirry, 
cheerfully.  "  They're  taken  care  of  at  some 
farm-house,  you  may  be  sure ;  nothing  but 
honest  folks  live  down  there.  Come,  Henry, 
jump  out,  and,  Mr.  Olds,  you  and  Mrs.  Olds 
take  the  wagon  and  drive  down  that  way,  so's 
to  bring  them  home  nicely." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Olds.  "We  don't  know 
how  long  we  may  have  to  look.  Henry's  horse 
has  been  to  Compton  and  back,  and  is  tired.  I 
shall  harness  my  horse  in  the  carryall  and  take 
everything  that  may  be  needed.  Becky,  go 


198  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

back  to  the  house  and  get  cordials  and  blankets. 
Give  me  the  lantern  —  Rachel,  you  will  coine 
with  me." 

They  turned  back,  and  were  soon  by  the 
house  again,  when  Becky  went  in,  but  Mrs. 
Olds  would  stay  by  her  husband.  He  carried 
the  lantern,  and  they  went  out  to  the  barn. 

"  Rachel,"  said  he,  as  she  clung  to  his  arm, 
"  it  could  not  be  that  our  children  should  suffer 
any  harm  on  Christmas.  I'm  not  superstitious, 
but  it's  Christmas,  you  know."  Just  then  the 
clock  struck  twelve  in  the  clear  air,  and  at  once, 
too,  the  bells  were  merrily  rung,  to  usher  in 
Christmas  Day. 

"  0  Jacob,"  said  she,  bitterly,  "  what  right 
have  we  to  expect  God  will  take  care  of  our 
children  ?  Hark  !  "  and  she  seized  his  arm 
convulsively.  They  stood  dumb  upon  the  thres- 
hold of  the  door. 

"  They  found  a  babe  "  — 

It  was  little  Jacob  who  had  suddenly  waked 
at  the  sound  of  bells,  and  had  sung  the  words 
that  were  last  on  his  lips.  It  was  their  father's 
barn  to  which  they  had  come  back  in  their 
wanderings.  He  sang  both  verses  clearly. 

"  Rachel,"  said  Mr.  Olds,  "  I  dare  not  go 
in,"  and  he  sank  down  on  the  floor.  But  at 
that  moment,  the  other  children  waking,  began 


THREE    WISE  LITTLE  BOYS.  199 

talking  and  crying  together,  and  Mrs.  Olds, 
opening  the  door,  cried,  as  she  looked  into  the 
darkness,  — 

"  My  children,  my  children !  " 

"  Here  we  are,  mamma,"  spoke  up  little  Jacob. 
"  0,  I  thought  perhaps  the  babe  had  come. 
Do  you  really  think  he  will  come  to-night? 
Nurse  told  us  about  him,  but  it  was  a  secret. 
There  was  One  who  was  found  just  so,  when 
the  angels  sang  to  the  shepherds,  and  He  was 
good  to  people,  and  He  died." 

"  And  Johnny  was  Parson  Dawes,"  broke  in 
Peter,  who  was  crying,  and  was  very  sleepy. 

"  Why  didn't  you  hear  us  when  we  sang  ?  " 
said  John.  "We  sang  real  loud,  and  I  pounded 
with  my  stick.  This  is  the  way  we  did,"  and 
the  children,  now  wide  awake,  and  standing  on 
the  barn-floor,  sang  once  again  their  Christmas 
carol.  And  Becky,  who  had  come  out,  said 
nothing,  and  could  not  even  sing  with  them  in 
her  old  cracked  voice. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday  and  Christmas. 
The  three  wise  little  boys  did  not  know  much 
about  the  King  of  the  Jews  whom  they  went 
to  worship.  But  they  went,  nevertheless,  and 
they  carried,  though  they  did  not  know  it, 
some  very  precious  offerings. 


TOM  AND  JOM. 

THERE  were  two  horses  that  drew  a  street 
car  over  rails  in  the  city.  They  looked  exactly 
alike,  except  that  one  had  a  white  spot  over  his 
tail,  and  this  was  the  only  way  that  the  stable- 
men and  driver  could  tell  him  from  the  other, 
and  yet  they  were  quite  different.  The  name 
of  the  one  distinguished  by  the  white  mark 
was  Tom ;  the  name  of  the  other  was  John. 
So  the  driver  and  the  stable-men  called  him ; 
but  he  was  rather  deaf,  and,  like  deaf  people, 
apt  to  seem  a  little  dull.  He  thought  his 
name  was  Jom,  and  that  the  driver,  and  stable- 
men, and  Tom,  who  was  always  next  to  him, 
called  him  by  that  name. 

They  had  travelled  together,  Tom  and  Jom, 
as  long  as  either  could  remember,  and  were 
getting  to  be  somewhat  old ;  still  they  jogged 
on  in  the  same  track  with  a  rattling  car  at 
their  heels,  day  after  day.  They  went  down 
one  street  and  up  another,  and  into  a  third  for 
a  very  long  way ;  and  after  stopping  a  shor* 


TOM  AND  JOM.  201 

while,  started  off  again,  and  soon  were  in  the 
first  street  again ;  and  down  that  they  went, 
and  up  the  other,  and  so  round  and  round,  only 
at  noon  stopping  for  a  lunch,  and  at  night 
stopping  for  rest ;  the  next  day  they  started  out 
and  got  into  the  middle  of  the  track,  and  the 
car  was  hung  on  to  them,  and  off  they  jogged 
again,  rain  or  shine,  hot  or  cold,  down  the 
street  and  up  the  next,  and  into  the  third. 

As  Tom  and  Jom  moved  along,  they  wagged 
their  heads,  and  shook  their  tails  a  little ;  but 
they  could  not  see  each  other  very  well,  since 
they  wore  old-fashioned  Winders.  So  they 
looked  ahead.  Yet  they  could  talk  to  one  an- 
other for  all  that.  .Tom  liked  talking  hest  in 
the  evening,  when  it  was  quiet  about  them, 
and  he  did  not  have  to  raise  his  voice  so  much ; 
but  Jom  liked  rather  to  talk  in  the  day-time, 
when  carts  were  rattling  about  them,  because, 
like  other  deaf  people,  he  could  hear  better 
then.  So  it  was  that  one  day  when  they  had 
started  out  on  their  regular  journey,  they  fell 
into  conversation. 

"  Well,"  said  Jom,  "  we  seem  to  be  going 
tgain  —  eh,  Tom  ?  " 

"  O  don't  talk  yet,"  complained  Tom.  "  Do 
wait  till  evening.  It's  so  noisy.  Besides,  I 
feel  so  stupid  always  in  the  morning." 


202  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jom,  who  was  a  little  apt  to  re- 
peat himself,  — "  yes,  we  seem  to  be  going 
again.  We've  got  a  good  long  day  before  us, 
a  good  long  day." 

"  Just  hear  him,"  groaned  Tom.  "  I  say, 
John  !  "  he  shouted. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Jom. 

"  Don't  you  wish  it  was  night  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  speak  so  loud.  I  hear  well 
enough  in  the  day-time.  Why,  do  you  think 
we  shall  get  there  then  —  eh,  Tom  ?  It  looks 
like  it.  We've  been  going  so  long  now,  we 
must  be  'most  there.  Let  me  see  :  yesterday 
and  day  before,  and  then  day  before  that,  and 
then  the  day  those  men  were  trying  to  get  up 
those  two  long  black  things,  that  always  seem 
to  be  going  just  ahead  of  us.  0,  no  doubt  we 
are  almost  there !  "  and  he  waggled  his  head 
sagely. 

"  I  never  did  see  such  a  — !  "  cried  Tom. 
"  You  don't  suppose  it  will  be  any  different  to- 
morrow, do  you  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,  if  we  get  there." 

"  But  we  sha'n't  get  there." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that ;  we've  been  a- 
going  now  pretty  long." 

"  But  that's  just  it,  John.  Do  we  get  ahead 
any?" 


TOM  AND  JOM.  203 

"  Look  here,  Tom  ;  look  at  my  feet.  Don't 
they  step  out  a  little  farther  along  each  time  ? 
It  makes  me  almost  dizzy  to  look  at  them.  As 
sure  as  my  name's  Join,  we  shall  get  there, 
depend  upon  it ;  yes,  depend  upon  it  —  eh, 
Tom  ?  "  and  Jom  tried  to  look  round  his  hlack 
spectacles  at  Tom. 

"  It's  no  use  talking  to  that  John,"  Tom 
muttered  to  himself.  "  If  he  thinks  he  is 
going  anywhere  where  he  won't  have  to  begin 
and  go  all  over  again,  his  name  is  Jom  and 
not  John.  I  wish  this  old  thing  behind  us 
would  stop  forever.  I  don't  see  why  they  fasten 
it  on  us.  We  don't  do  anything  with  it.  And 
then  it  keeps  stopping  so,  and  it  has  such  a 
horrible  rattle." 

Just  then  there  was  a  sharp  ring  at  the  bell, 
and  the  brakes  were  put  on. 

"  Hoh  ! "  said  Jom,  who  was  tired  of  keep- 
ing his  tongue  still.  "  It's  stopping  to  think, 
Tom  —  stopping  to  think.  That's  a  queer 
chattering  sound  it  makes.  I  wonder  what  it's 
going  to  do  next  ?  Ah !  there  it  goes  again," 
for  the  bell  rang,  the  brakes  were  set  free,  and 
Dff  they  went. 

"Tom,"  continued  Jom,  when  they  were 
once  more  well  under  way,  "  I've  something  to 
,ell  you." 


204  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  I  wish  it  was  dinner-time,"  cried  Tom ; 
u  you  always  have  something  to  tell  me.  I  wish 
I  was  dead  —  I  do.  I'm  a  perfect  slave.  I  re- 
member when  I  was  ridden  for  pleasure ;  yes, 
ridden  about  by  little  boys.  They  never  hung 
one  of  these  dreadful,  jingling,  rasping,  heavy 
things  behind  me ;  and  I  could  see  out  of  the 
side  of  my  eye,  too.  I  don't  care.  I  want 
some  dinner." 

"  But,  Tom,"  said  Jom,  mildly,  "  that  was 
a  long  while  ago ;  we're  going  to  have  some- 
thing better  now,  something  better  —  eh, 
Tom  ?  " 

"  Something  bitter !  "  said  Tom,  sharply. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  that's  it,"  said  Jom,  reach- 
ing over  playfully  to  caress  Tom,  "something 
better,  something  better."  But  the  driver 
jerked  the  rein,  and  called  out,  — 

"  Heh  there,  John  ;  mind  now." 

"  Singular  !  "  said  Jom  to  himself ;  "  when- 
ever I  want  to  rub  my  nose  on  Tom,  there  is 
the  queerest  hitch  at  the  back  of  my  head. 
But,  Tom,"  he  continued  aloud,  "  really,  now, 
I've  something  important  to  tell.  Want  to 
hear  —  eh,  Tom  ?  Do  you  remember  that  day 
the  thing  behind  got  tired,  and  couldn't  move 
"or  a  good  while  ?  " 

"  I  remember  how  I  thought  we  never 
should  get  home." 


TOM  AND  JOM.  205 

"  Well,  as  we  were  standing,  there  was  a 
vegetable  cart  near  by,  and  I  talked  with  the 
horse.  He  was  a  good,  plain  sort  of  horse. 
He  didn't  seem  to  think  much,  though,  of  the 
vegetables  he  had.  I  said  how  green  they 
were.  He  said  he  couldn't  see  them  himself, 
but  he  didn't  like  to  smell  them.  He  was  used 
to  grass.  Just  think,  Tom,  he  had  grass  at 
home ;  and  he  wasn't  such  a  very  fine  horse, 
either  —  not  such  a  very  fine  horse.  You  used 
to  have  grass,  I  think  you  said  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  he  said  that  near  where  he  lived 
there  were  —  what  do  you  guess  ?  eh,  what  do 
you  guess,  Tom  ?  " 

"  I  don't  guess  anything." 

"  No,  that  wasn't  it ;  they  were  —  car 
horses,  just  like  us !  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"  Well,  we're  not  the  only  wretches." 

"  0,  but  they  were  eating  grass,"  said  Jom, 
and  he  raised  his  upper  lip,  and  tried  again  to 
look  round  his  black  spectacles  at  Tom.  "  Now ! 
Do  you  think  we  never  shall  get  there  ?  " 

"  No,  we  never  shall ;  sure  as  your  name's 
John." 

"  Well,  sure  as  my  name  s  Jom,  as  you  say, 
>.  know  we  shall.  I  feel  it  every  time  that 


206  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

thing1  behind  us  begins  to  rattle  so,  and  ther 
stop  to  think.  Sometimes,  too,  when  I  am  nol 
BO  deaf  as  usual,  I  hear  a  little  tinkle  sound 
behind.  It  seems  to  say,  '  grass  ! ' 

"  Heigh  ho !  "  said  Tom.  "  Here  we  are  at 
last.  Now  for  dinner ;  and  thank  fortune  I 
sha'n't  have  to  listen  to  old  Jom,  as  he  calls 
himself,  for  an  hour  now." 

The  two  horses  were  put  into  their  stalls,  and 
given  their  dinner.  There  was  some  talking- 
going-  on  about  them ;  and  presently,  to  Jom's 
surprise,  he  was  led  out  of  his  stall.  Where  was 
he  going-  ?  He  went  out  of  the  stable,  into  the 
street,  and  then  a  man  in  a  wagon  took  tli€ 
halter-strap  that  was  about  his  neck,  and  off 
they  started,  man  and  wagon,  and  behind,  Jom, 
who  felt  unusually  bright.  He  listened  for  the 
thing  behind  him.  He  could  not  hear  it;  and 
on  they  went  without  stopping,  so  that  he  was 
almost  out  of  breath.  They  passed  a  vegeta- 
ble wagon  standing  by  the  side  of  a  shop. 

"What!  so  you're  going,  too?"  asked  the 
vegetable  horse,  turning  his  head  and  recog- 
nizing Jom. 

"  Ye-ye-yes,"  nodded  Jom,  his  head  going 
up  and  down,  as  it  always  did  when  he  was  in 
delight. 

"  I'll  see  you  to-night,"  called  out  the  vege- 


TOM  AND  JOM,  207 

table  horse  after  him.  But  he  did  not  see  him. 
Join  was  going1  into  the  country,  but  into  an- 
other part.  When  the  sun  was  going  down, 
they  came  to  a  pretty  house  with  a  grassy  slope 
before  it.  Children  were  playing  about,  rolling 
over  the  hay-cocks,  and  laughing  in  great 
sport. 

"  There  he  is  !  there  he  is  !  "  they  cried 
together,  as  the  wagon  came  up,  and  they 
crowded  down  to  the  farmer. 

"  Is  this  really  our  new  horse '?  "  they  asked. 
The  father  came  up. 

"  Well,  Coleman,  he  has  a  good  character  — 
has  he  ?  " 

"  O,  bless  you,  sir,  they  say  they  never 
touched  a  whip  to  him.  He's  as  gentle  as  a 
lamb.  He's  a  bit  stupid,  sir,  I'm  thinking." 

"  No,  I'm  not  stupid,"  said  Jom,  gravely. 
« I'm  deaf." 

But  they  did  not  heed  him. 

The  children  came  closer,  and  patted  him 
timidly.  Jom  raised  his  upper  lip,  and  shook 
his  head  up  and  down,  and  said,  "  Come  closer, 
children." 

"  What's  his  name,  Mr.  Coleman  ?  "  asked 
the  oldest. 

"  It's  Jom,"  said  Jom. 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  his  mother  ever  gave 
liiui  any,"  said  the  farmer. 


208  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  Let's  call  him  June.  It's  the  first  day  of 
June  now."  So  they  agreed  to  call  him  June. 

"  Juine  ?  that's  not  exactly  it,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  but  it  will  do.  How  I  wish  Tom  was 
here. 

"  Curious  !  "  said  the  father  to  the  farmer ; 
"  how  much  this  old  horse  looks  like  one  I 
once  had.  The  only  difference  that  I  can  see 
is  that  that  one  had  a  white  spot  over  his  tail." 

"  That  was  Tom,"  broke  in  Jom,  eagerly, 
who  heard  the  last  few  words. 

"  I  used  to  ride  him  when  I  was  a  boy  ; 
but  he  had  a  bad  temper,  was  a  fretful,  impa- 
tient horse,  and  we  sold  him." 

"  0,  then  it  wasn't  Torn,"  said  Jom  to  him- 
self. 

"  Xow,  please,  put  me  on  his  back  !  "  cried 
the  oldest ;  "  and  me,"  pleaded  the  next ;  "  and 
me,"  "  and  me :  "  so  old  Jom  was  soon  walk- 
ing round  delighted,  with  the  children  on  his 
back  ;  and  he  smelt  the  sweet  grass,  and  even 
ventured  to  put  his  nose  down  and  nibble  a 
little. 

Happy  Jom  !    Poor  Tom  I 


THE  VISION  OF   JOHN  THE  WATCHMAN. 

WHEN  the  stars  are  shining  on  a  December 
night,  and  that  night  is  the  last  of  the  year 
that  runs  from  Christmas  to  Christmas,  then 
is  the  time  for  new  thoughts  to  be  born ;  every- 
thing is  transparent,  everything  that  sounds 
has  a  clear  ring  to  it.  One  looks  over  the 
country,  and  the  trees  seem  watching  for  what 
the  gray  dawn  may  reveal  to  the  world ;  and  if 
one  must  walk  down  city  streets,  there,  too, 
the  very  houses  stand  higher,  as  if  to  hear 
what  may  be  sounding  above  ;  and  the  church 
spires  listen  to  catch  the  first  note.  As  twelve 
o'clock  comes  on,  the  stillness  deepens ;  every 
click  upon  the  pavement  sounds  like  the  beat- 
ing of  a  stony  heart.  What  will  come  ?  what 
will  be  seen  and  heard  when  the  new  year  be- 
gins on  Christmas  Day  ? 

The  top  of  Trinity  spire  would  seem  to  be 
the  best  place  for  a  watchman  at  such  a  time. 
From  that  dizzy  height,  he  could  peer  off  over 
the  water,  or  over  the  laud,  following  the  lines 

14 


210  BEFORE    THE   FIRE. 

of  twinkling-  lights  below,  or  up  into  the  sky, 
ready  for  the  first  breath  of  sound  or  glimpse 
of  heavenly  sight ;  and  then  from  that  perch 
he  could  make  his  voice  dart  down  and  into  the 
belfry,  and  down  by  other  voices,  till  glad 
hands  should  pull  at  the  chiming  bells  to  sum- 
mon all  who  might  be  listening  and  waiting 
and  watching,  on  Christmas  Eve. 

But  on  one  memorable  Christmas  Eve,  mem- 
orable for  our  John  the  Watchman,  there  was 
no  one  thus  lifted  up  above  the  common  streets, 
or  who  can  say  what  good  news  might  have 
been  sounded  over  the  city  ?  and  yet  —  would 
he  have  seen  what  John  saw  ?  Now,  John  was 
a  watchman  —  that  was  his  business.  Every 
night  when  the  gas  was  lighted,  John  put  on 
his  great  watch-coat,  pulled  his  cap  well  on, 
kissed  the  children  and  Mary  his  wife,  and  with 
a  stout  brown  paper  parcel  in  his  pocket,  which 
Mary  had  stowed  there,  set  off  for  Church 
Street,  to  keep  watch  over  a  great  warehouse. 

How  much  money  there  was  in  that  ware- 
house !  not  in  gold,  and  silver,  and  copper,  but 
in  stone,  which  rose,  story  above  story,  up  to- 
ward the  sky ;  and  inside,  in  cloth,  and  won- 
derful fabrics  of  every  kind.  All  day  long, 
scores  of  clerks  went  about  in  it,  selling  goods ; 
or  sat  and  stood,  silently  pinned  to  desks,  like 


THE    VISION  OF  JOHN  THE    WATCHMAN.    211 

dead  butterflies  all  in  a  row,  as  they  added  up 
columns  of  figures,  till  their  heads  ached,  and 
found  out  every  day  how  much  money  the 
warehouse  was  worth ;  and  every  day,  gray- 
haired,  sharp-eyed  old  gentlemen  sat  where 
they  could  see  the  row  of  butterflies,  and 
looked  over  their  shoulders,  and  found  out  how 
much  they  owned,  —  for  they  owned  the  ware- 
house ;  and  then  when  the  gas  out-of-doors 
was  lighted,  they  took  the  pins  out,  and  the 
butterfly  clerks  went  home,  and  the  old  gen- 
tlemen went  home,  and  the  porter  locked  all 
the  doors,  and  he  went  home  ;  and  then  John 
came,  and  he  stayed,  —  till  the  porter  came 
back  next  morning. 

The  first  thing  John  the  Watchman  always 
did,  was  to  go  round  to  all  the  doors,  and  try 
them,  take  hold  of  the  handles,  and  pull  and 
rattle  them  ;  and  Peter  the  Inside  Watchman 
• — for  there  was  one  inside  and  one  out —  Peter 
would  hear  it,  and  say  to  himself,  —  "  Good  ! 
there's  John  :  all  right !  "  Then  when  John 
had  tried  all  the  doors,  he  looked  at  the  win- 
dows, to  see  if  they  were  fastened ;  and  he 
ooked  his  stick  into  all  the  gratings,  but  that 
was  only  because  it  seemed  a  safe  thing  to  do, 
for  what  could  happen  about  a  grating  that  a 
stick  could  poke  into?  Then  he  settled  into 


812  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

his  great-coat,  felt  of  the  bundle  in  his  pocket, 
and  now  he  was  all  right  for  the  night,  and  he 
began  to  walk  up  and  down,  down  and  up, 
round  the  square,  back  and  forth,  always 
changing  his  course,  so  as  to  turn  up  unexpect- 
edly everywhere,  and  be  always  on  the  spot, 
should  any  one  be  so  bold  as  to  try  a  door  with 
a  false  key,  or  think  to  take  out  a  light  of  glass. 
A  quick  robber  he  would  be,  who  came  round 
the  corner  and  did  not  find  John  the  Watch- 
man at  that  post. 

Now,  on  this  night,  John  settled  himself  as 
usual  into  his  shaggy  coat,  and  began  his 
steady  beat  over  the  flagging.  There  was  no 
snow  on  the  ground.  It  was  a  clear,  cold 
night;  the  bright  stars  were  shining  in  the 
heavens,  which  spanned  the  earth  with  a  pure 
blue  arch ;  blue  indeed,  this  night,  as  any  one 
could  see  who  looked  up.  The  air  was  still, 
and  every  sound  that  stirred  came  sharp  upon 
the  ear.  Broadway,  not  far  off,  seemed  to  be 
a  procession  of  sounds  of  every  sort  and  kind, 
while  just  about  John's  walk,  it  was  long  be- 
fore the  street  was  clear,  —  so  many  people 
went  briskly  by,  and  carts  and  omnibuses  clat- 
tered past.  It  was  a  lively  evening,  and  John 
watched  the  sights  about  him,  and  wondered 
and  wondered,  —  what  this  one  had  in  his  bas- 


THE   VISION  OF  JOHN  THE    WATCHMAN.    213 

ket  —  how  many  children  that  old  gentleman 
had  —  whether  he  had  anything  in  his  pockets 
for  them.  You  see  John's  mind  rather  ran 
upon  children.  He  had  two,  twins,  a  girl  and 
a  boy,  John  and  Mary,  just  his  own  and  wife's 
names,  so  they  were  called  Little  John  and 
Mary  Little.  It  is  hard  to  get  away  from  these 
twins,  now  that  we  have  begun  to  talk  about 
them ;  but  we  must :  we  have  nothing  to  do 
with  them  to-night,  except  as  we  look  into  our 
John's  —  John  the  Big's — mind,  for  in  that 
mind  are  stowed  the  twins.  They  are  safe  in 
bed  now  at  home,  and  safe  in  John's  mind  at 
the  same  time.  But  it  is  extraordinary  how 
fast  they  grow !  Now,  children  grow  when 
they  sleep,  every  one  knows  that ;  and  while 
the  twins,  just  a  year  old,  are  laid  in  their  lit- 
tle bed,  Mary  is  watching  them,  and  John  the 
Watchman  is  watching  them  in  his  mind,  off 
by  the  warehouse.  As  they  look  steadily  at 
them,  how  fast  they  grow !  It  is  only  eight 
o'clock  now,  and  John  is  seeing  in  his  mind's 
eye  —  for  that  is  what  looks  on  in  the  mind  — 
John  is  seeing  a  great  John  and  Mary  :  a  stout 
voung  man,  who  has  grown  up  in  three  hours, 
like  Jack  of  the  Beau-stalk  ;  a  wonderful  young 
man,  who  has  been  at  college,  and  knows  so 
—  dear  me  !  John  the  Watchman  begins 


214  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

to  wonder  whether  son  John  will  not  think  his 
father  dreadfully  ignorant,  and  a  foolish  old 
man.  And  he  sees  Mary,  now  Mary  the  Tall, 
a  fair  young  woman,  as  beautiful  as  her  mother, 
moving  about  so  gracefully,  that  the  old  house 
looks  very  homely  for  so  charming  a  maid  to 
live  in  ;  and  John  sighs  to  himself,  and  then 
starts  with  a  laugh,  and  in  a  twinkling,  John 
the  Wise  and  Mary  the  Tall  are  back  in  their 
cradle  again,  with  their  thumbs  in  their 
mouths.  They  have  been  growing  just  in  the 
same  way,  as  Mary  looks  at  them. 

The  passers  in  the  street  gradually  were 
fewer  and  fewer  :  the  changing  noises  in 
Broadway  died  down  ;  the  lights,  except  in  the 
street  lamps  disappeared  one  by  one,  and  still 
John  kept  his  pacing  by  the  great  warehouse. 
He  looked  up  now  and  then  at  the  windows  of 
the  hospital  which  stood  near  by.  He  often 
looked  there,  and  tried  to  fancy  what  the  peo- 
ple behind  were  doing.  He  would  see  forms 
pass  and  repass,  get  up  and  sit  down,  and  he 
knew  that  behind  those  stone  and  brick  walls 
there  were  many  poor  sufferers,  who  tossed 
restlessly  through  the  night,  and  wished  that 
morning  would  come,  —  morning,  that  brought 
nothing  but  a  change  of  pain.  He  could  see 
a  light  in  one  of  the  windows  now.  There 


THE   VISION  OF  JOHN   THE    WATCHMAN,   215 

were  people  moving  about  in  the  room,  slowly, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  very  gently.  He  saw  a 
woman  pour  out  a  draught  by  the  light,  and 
carry  it  —  to  the  sufferer  on  the  bed,  he  did 
not  doubt;  and  John  fell  to  thinking  how 
many  people  there  must  be,  rich  and  poor,  who 
were  sick  that  night,  and  he  was  well  and 
walking  about.  John  was  a  simple  sort  of  a 
man.  When  he  thought  of  this,  he  looked 
up  for  a  moment,  and  thanked  God  that  he  was 
well.  Then  he  began  to  think  about  Little 
John  and  Mary  Little.  What  if  they  should 
be  taken  sick,  and  this  very  night !  and  he 
went  on  and  prayed  to  God  to  take  care  of 
John  and  Mary. 

Click  !  click  !  click  !  a  sharp  tap  three  times 
on  the  sidewalk.  The  same  sound  again.  John 
the  Watchman  knew  wrhat  it  meant.  He  must 
stay  at  his  post,  but  all  about  came  hurrying 
the  city  watchmen,  with  their  clubs  in  their 
hands.  He  heard  a  noise,  cries,  terrible  words, 
sharp  blows.  It  was  confusion  ;  but  he  knew 
that  there,  down  the  street,  a  fight  was  going 
on.  Presently  a  squad  of  men  came  up  the 
street,  dragging  a  fierce,  ragged  man,  who 
gesticulated  and  shouted ;  behind,  came  shortly 
another  body  of  men,  bearing  on  their  shoul- 
ders a  wounded  man,  while  an  angry,  cowardly 


*16  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

gang  of  men,  women,  and  boys  hung  about,  or 
turned  and  fled,  when  it  seemed  as  if  they 
would  be  pursued.  Tramp,  tramp,  they  went 
past  John  the  Watchman. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Stabbing ! "  said  one  of  the  men,  and 
on  they  went,  the  wild  man  screaming,  the 
wounded  man  groaning,  as  he  was  borne  pain- 
fully along. 

John  trembled  as  they  left  him.  He  could 
not  help  it;  he  was  not  a  coward  —  let  any 
one  try  the  warehouse  and  see  !  but  John  had 
just  been  thinking  about  Little  John  and  Mary 
Little.  He  thought  of  them  again,  and  shud- 
dered. He  seemed  to  see  them  in  that  crowd. 
He  looked  up  at  the  warehouse.  It  was  bolted 
and  secured  at  every  point.  There  was  money, 
he  knew,  behind  those  stone  and  iron  walls. 
He  was  set  there  to  watch,  because  wicked  men 
there  were,  who  would  risk  life  to  rob  the  ware- 
house. He  heard  the  screaming  man,  whom 
the  officers  could  not  quiet,  as  they  dragged  him 
along,  and  of  a  sudden  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  city  was  full  of  wicked  men  and  women. 
And  this  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  how  long 
it  was  since  He  had  come  to  save  the  world. 
More  than  eighteen  hundred  years,  and  was 
this  all?  How  could  he,  with  his  fatherly 


THE   VISION  OF  JOHN  THE    WATCHMAN.  217 

heart,  keep  Little  John  and  Mary  Little  from 
ending-  like  this  ?  John  was  a  simple  man  ;  he 
prayed  to  God  to  keep  the  children  from  sin. 
Let  them  be  sick  and  suffer,  if  need  be,  he  said, 
but  keep  them  from  sin. 

John  looked  earnestly  up  and  around.  He 
saw  the  bolted  warehouse.  There  was  all  that 
money ;  and  yet  people,  if  they  could  go  in 
and  take  it  all,  would  not  be  made  righteous 
by  that.  There  was  the  hospital.  Good  people 
built  it  and  watched  in  it ;  but  they  could  not 
keep  their  own  children  from  sickness.  And 
John  whispered  to  himself,  —  No  !  they  could 
not  keep  their  own  children  from  sin.  There 
stood  the  dim  outline  of  a  church.  People 
could  go  in  and  out :  did  that  keep  them  right? 

Poor  John  began  to  be  dizzy,  as  he  thought 
of  these  things.  "  Why,  what  can  keep  us 
right  ?  "  he  cried  aloud.  "  God  is  so  far  off. 
He  sees  us  and  hears  us,  but  we  can't  see  Him. 
How  can  I  be  sure  that  Little  John  and  Mary 
Little  will  be  right,  and  keep  right  ?  "  and  he 
saw  the  twinkling  stars,  and  the  clear  blue  sky, 
and  the  thought  rushed  over  him,  —  Only  the 
pure  in  heart  shall  see  God. 

"  Lord  God  !  "  he  cried.  "  How  long  ?  how 
>ong?" 

Did  the  blue  sky  open?  was  there  a  move- 


218  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

ment  among  the  stars  ?  John  the  Watchman, 
resting  for  a  moment  from  his  tramp,  leaning 
against  the  warehouse  door,  heard  no  sound, 
and  the  street  and  hospital  were  there  still ; 
and  yet,  in  the  street,  above  it,  in  heaven  or  on 
earth,  who  could  tell  ?  he  saw  the  form  of  One 
like  the  Son  of  Man.  He  did  not  fear  to  look 
upon  Him,  for  every  line  in  that  face  and  form 
drew  his  eyes.  He  saw  Him  pass,  and  touch  a 
poor  man  bending  over  a  heap  of  garbage,  who 
looked  up  into  His  face,  and  straightway 
caught,  in  faint  resemblance,  the  same  look, 
and  John  for  one  moment  glanced  at  the  rag- 
picker with  the  changed  face.  But  back  he 
turned  to  the  One,  who  passed  now  over  the 
threshold  of  a  church.  He  saw  Him  enter. 
He  saw  the  bowed  heads  of  the  multitude ; 
and  when  they  looked  up,  though  He  was  gone, 
their  faces  gave  back  a  little  of  the  kindling 
glory.  Once  more  he  saw  Him  lift  the  latch 
of  a  humble  house,  and  enter  there.  0  joy ! 
it  was  John's  own  house.  There  sat  Mary, 
bending  over  the  sleeping  babes.  He  saw  Him 
look  upon  the  mother,  and  then  upon  the  chil- 
dren. Did  He  smile?  from  the  little  facea 
came  a  smile.  There  was  no  solitude  when 
He  was  gone  ;  He  took  away  no  blessing  with 
Him.  Down  through  dark  streets  John  saw 


THE   VISION  OF  JOHN  THE    WATCHMAN.  219 

Him  pass,  lighting  the  way  as  He  moved. 
Men,  and  women,  and  children  gathered 
around  Him.  Alas!  for  those  who  shut  their 
eyes,  and  turned  again  to  slumber.  Did  they 
know  that  he  was  there  ?  Yet  he  left  a  light 
in  the  place,  —  He  left  faces  of  holiness.  Ever 
and  ever  John  saw  Him  pass  and  repass ; 
brighter  and  brighter  shone  the  light  about 
Him.  The  city's  hum  sounded,  yet  He  did 
not  go;  there  was  a  vast  moving,  hither  and 
thither,  of  busy  men  and  women  ;  the  streets 
of  the  city  were  full  of  boys  and  girls,  playing 
in  the  streets  thereof;  and  yet,  go  where  they 
would,  their  eyes  were  still  turned  upon  Him. 
He  went  where  each  went ;  they  were  walking 
beside  Him. 

Was  this  heaven  ?  was  this  earth  ?  John 
the  Watchman  looked  through  it  all,  and,  as 
his  eyes  peered  more  steadily,  solid  shapes  held 
them.  A  light  moved  in  a  casement,  forms 
flitted  back  and  forth.  He  was  aware  of  famil- 
iar objects.  The  hospital  was  before  him.  He 
stood  firmly  upon  the  sidewalk,  and  looked 
anxiously  at  the  lighted  window.  There  he  had 
seen  the  ministering  woman,  and  felt  the  sick 
man  to  be.  Now  he  could  see  plainly  that 
there  were  several  in  the  room.  He  saw  them 
«neel  by  the  bedside. 


220  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  It  is  his  last  moment,"  said  Jolm  to  him- 
self. They  knelt,  and  then  all  rose  but  one,  — 
the  woman,  —  and  she  kept  her  place. 

*'  Lord  Jesus,  receive  his  spirit,"  murmured 
John. 

Hark  !  on  the  kneeling  woman,  and  on 
John  the  Watchman  murmuring  his  prayer, 
struck  the  sound  of  chiming1  bells. 

Still  here  !  still  here !  they  joyfully  rang. 
Lo,  He  cometh !  In  clouds,  in  clouds  ! 

Louder  and  louder  pealed  the  bells,  while 
full  in  John  the  Watchman's  heart  sounded 
the  glad  tidings  —  He  is  the  life  of  the  world, 
Men  shall  look  upon  Him  and  live.  The 
Jesus  Christ  of  Galilee  and  Jewry,  —  He  that 
was  lifted  up  —  He  would  draw  all  men  unto 
Him. 

Christmas  morning  had  risen. 


THE  STORY  THAT  NEVER  WAS  TOLD. 

IN  the  middle  of  the  garden  was  a  lake,  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  lake  was  an  island,  and  in 
the  middle  of  the  island  was  a  bower,  and  there 
sat  a  Little  Girl.  No  hands  had  made  the 
bower,  but  some  rhododendrons  grew  in  a 
circle  and  dropped  their  flaming  flowers  upon  a 
mound  of  earth,  which  was  the  Little  Girl's 
seat.  There  was  room  within  the  bo\yer  for  a 
great  many  visitors,  and  through  the  opening 
in  front  one  could  see,  or  at  least  the  Little 
Girl  could  see,  over  the  water,  and  out  toward 
the  mountains  that  stood  in  the  wide  world. 

She  could  see  down  the  slope,  too,  that  led 
from  the  bower  to  the  lake,  and  thus  she  saw 
the  procession  that  wound  up  the  path  to  where 
she  sat.  She  watched  it  come  and  her  heart 
beat  lightly,  for  she  knew  that  now  she  was  to 
hear  stories ;  yes,  each  one  in  the  procession 
was  to  tell  a  story  —  a  story  about  the  wide 
world  where  they  lived.  And  off  on  the  lake 
she  could  see  a  tiny  boat  — only  a  speck  in  the 


222  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

distance  —  that  had  spread  its  white  sails  and 
was  coming  toward  her.  Were  there  more 
story-tellers  in  the  boat  ?  that  she  could  not 
tell ;  but  nearer  came  the  troop  winding  along 
the  path. 

Tra-la-la  !  tra-la-la-la  !  the  Columbine  horns 
were  sounding ;  Thrum-thrum !  droned  the 
Burdock-leaves  ;  Pweep-weep  !  whistled  the 
cold  Indian-pipe,  and  the  Pea-pods  burst  in 
with  their  snapping  Pop  !  pop  ! 

They  were  coming,  they  were  close  by  !  and 
the  Little  Girl  clapped  her  hands  as  the  music 
stopped,  and  a  kid  and  a  kitten  skipped  up  to 
the  bower,  and  tumbled  a  little  courtesy  to 
her. 

"  Your  name  is  Kid,  and  yours  is  Kitten," 
said  the  Little  Girl.  "  Tell  me,  Kitten,  what 
they  do  in  the  wide  world  where  you  live." 

"  O,"  said  Kitten,  "  we  play.  Shall  I  tell 
you  a  story?  Yesterday  we  played  we  were 
playing.  T'other  Kitty  —  that's  not  me,  but 
the  Kitty  that  didn't  come  to-day  —  T'other 
Kitty  and  I  had  a  ball,  and  we  played  that  we 
were  playing  with  this  ball.  It  was  all  in  fun, 
you  know :  we  only  played  we  were  playing.  1 
tossed  it  to  T'other  Kitty,  and  she  tossed  it  to 
me ;  then  I  tossed  it  to  her,  and  she  tossed  it 
to  me ;  and  then  I  tossed  it  to  her,  and  she 


THE  STORY  THAT  XEVER    WAS    TOLD.     223 

tossed  it  to  me ;  and  then  I  played  I  tosse  d  it 
to  her,  and  she  played  she  tossed  it  to  me ;  and 
then  I  played  that  I  was  a  Kitty  tossing  a  ball 
to  T'other  Kitty,  and  she  played  she  was  a 
Kitty  tossing1  a  ball  to  me  ;  and  then  I  played 
that  I  was  a  Kitty  playing  that  I  was  tossing 
a  ball  that  played  it  was  a  ball  " 

"  0,  0  !  "  said  the  Little  Girl ;  "  and  what 
came  next  ?  " 

"  And  then  T'other  Kitty  went  away,  and  I 
played  that  I  was  playing  " 

Just  then  the  Little  Boy  who  had  come  up 
in  the  procession  put  his  head  into  the  bower. 

"  Mayn't  I  tell  my  story  ?  "  said  he. 

"No,"  said  the  Little  Girl.  "You  must 
wait.  I  am  going  to  hear  the  Kid  now.  Kid, 
Kid,  what  can  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  where  I  went  yesterday  ?  I 
saw  a  rock,  and  I  went  skip,  skip,  to  reach  it. 
It  was  a  steep  rock,  it  had  little  jogs  in  it,  and 
I  skipped  from  one  jog  to  another,  till  I  was 
a-top  of  it." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  then  ?  " 

"  I  saw  the  kid  "  —  began  the  Little  Boy, 
eagerly. 

"  Hush  !   What  did  you  do  then,  Kid  ? ' 

"  0,  I  skipped  down  from  one  jog  to  another, 
and  then  I  went  skip,  skip,  home  again." 


224  BEFORE   THE  FIRE. 

"  I  have  so  much  to  tell  " 

"  Little  Boy,  you  must  wait.     Now  "  — 

"  Chip,  chip  !  "  twittered  the  swallows  that 
came  flying  into  the  bower,  and  darting  in  and 
out.  "  Chip,  chip  !  we  know  what  the  world 
is.  We  have  flown  about  it.  You  go  up  into 
the  blue,  then  you  skim  along,  and  there  it 
is!" 

"  But  what  is  the  world  like  ?  Can  you  tell 
me  no  story  ?  "  asked  the  Little  Girl. 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  know.  We  have  flown  about 
it.  You  go  up  into  the  blue,  then  you  skim 
along,  and  there  it  is." 

"  I  have  a  secret,"  said  the  Little  Boy. 

"  By  and  by,  Little  Boy." 

"  But  it  is  about  the  swallows.  I  have  been 
with  them." 

"  Be  quiet.  I  feel  quite  sure  that  I  shall  now 
hear  something  worth  hearing.  Hush,  music. 
Ant!  Bee!" 

"  We  have  no  time  to  idle,  but  we  tell  you 
a  story,"  began  the  Ant  and  Bee  together.  "  It 
may  do  you  good.  Listen  !  There*  were  once 
two  ants  and  two  bees.  One  ant  and  one  bee 
played  all  the  time.  The  other  ant  and  the 
ather  bee  worked  all  the  time.  Do  you  see 
those  corpses?  that  is  an  ant  and  that  is  a 
bee.  Do  you  see  that  tree  ?  There  is  a  store- 


THE  STORY  THAT  NEVER    WAS  TOLD-    225 

of  honey  in  it,  and  there  is  an  ant-hill  at  the 
Dottom.  That  is  OUR  honey,  and  OUR  hill.  We 
lire  the  other  ant  and  the  other  bee.  Good 
by." 

"But  stop!"  said  the  Little  Girl.  "You 
have  told  me  nothing  of  the  world  where  you 
live." 

"  That  is  OUR  honey  and  OUR  hill,"  said  the 
Ant  and  the  Bee  as  they  went  off. 

"  I  have  been  there.  I  can  tell  you,"  began 
the  Little  Boy. 

"  That  is  OUR  honey  and  OUR  hill,"  said  the 
Ant  and  the  Bee  in  the  distance. 

"  Hark  !  "  said  the  Little  Girl,  putting  her 
hand  behind  her  ear. 

"  That  is  OUR  honey  and  OUR  hill." 

"  I  can  just  hear  them,"  said  she.  "  Dear 
me,  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand." 

"  I  will  explain  "  — 

"  Stand  aside,  Little  Boy,  we  will  explain." 
There  were  three  this  time,  that  came  up  to- 
gether, but  they  were  of  different  sizes.  The 
Cow  was  the  largest,  and  the  Mouse  was  the 
smallest,  and  the  Rabbit  came  in  between. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy  to  say  which  was 
the  wisest.  They  stood  in  a  row,  and  the  Cow 
began  :  — 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  finished  swallowing  I 

15 


2-26  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

will  tell  all  about  it.  Everything  that  is  worth 
knowing1  comes  with  me.  I  do  not  take  it  all 
in  at  once,  but  I  try  it.  I  test  it,  and  if  it  is 
worth  keeping  I  swallow  it.  I  heard  what  the 
Ant  and  the  Bee  said,  and  I  took  it  in ;  but  I 
have  not  swallowed  it  yet.  You  may  be  sure 
that  it  is  worth  something  if  I  swallow  it." 

"  But  at  least  you  can  tell  me  a  story,  Rab- 
bit," said  the  Little  Girl,  as  the  Cow  now  went 
on  swallowing. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Rabbit,  "  certainly.  It 
shall  be  a  fable.  No  story  is  of  value  except 
it  be  a  fable.  A  story  —  something  made  up 
out  of  one's  head  about  nothing  —  bah  !  it  is 
only  fit  for  children." 

"  And  yet,"  —  began  the  Little  Boy. 

"  Patience,  Little  Boy.  I  think  I  will  hear 
you  soon." 

"  A  fable,"  went  on  the  Rabbit,  —  "a  fable 
has  a  meaning.  It  is  about  the  world.  It  is  not 
a  story,  for  it  has  a  moral  at  the  end,  and  who 
ever  saw  a  story  with  a  moral  at  the  end  ?  "  and 
he  looked  round  with  his  pink  eyes  at  the  com- 
pany. The  Mouse,  who  had  been  sitting  up- 
right in  order  better  to  be  seen,  went  forward 
and  whisked  his  tail. 

"  A  fable,"  he  piped,  "  is  like  a  mouse.  P 
has  a  tail." 


THE  STORY  THAT  NEVER   WAS   TOLD.     227 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  said  the  Rabbit. 

"  And  a  story  is  like  a  rabbit.  If  it  bas  a 
tail  it  is  driven  inside.  The  tail  is  everything. 
A  fable  has  a  tail.  A  story  has  no  tail." 

The  Rabbit  was  very  angry. 

"  A  tail !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  A  tail !  what  is 
a  tail?  Have  I  a  tail,  and  am  I  nothing-  ?  Is 
a  tail  everything  ?  a  tail !  indeed  !  a  tail !  " 

"  But  I  have  not  heard  your  fable,"  said  the 
Little  Girl  timidly.  "  I  wanted  a  story,  but  if 
a  fable  is  so  much  better  "  — 

"  I  know  a  fable  "  —  eagerly  began  the  Lit- 
tle Boy. 

"  I  know  about  you,  sir,"  said  the  Mouse 
quietly.  I  advise  you  to  wait.  If  you  have 
not  succeeded  in  having  your  say  yet,  you  never 
will  get  it.  Your  time  is  gone  by.  You  belong- 
to  the  Little  Boys.  Do  you  know  how  old  I 
am  ? "  he  added  sharply,  looking  with  his 
keen  eyes  into  the  Little  Girl's  face. 

"  I  think  you  are  old  enough  to  teach  me  a 
good  deal." 

"  Humph !  Do  you  see  this  stone  I  am  sit- 
ting on?  Under  that  stone  there  are  some 
beetles.  Under  the  beetles  there  is  the  earth. 
Under  the  earth  —  what?"  and  he  looked 
round  on  the  company.  No  one  answered. 

"What?"  he  repeated.  "What  is  under 
the  earth  ?  " 


228  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 

"  I've  swallowed  it !  "  said  the  Cow,  who  had 
been  chewing  all  this  time  with  her  eyes  half 
shut. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  the  Little  Girl.  "  What 
was  it?" 

"  A  tail !  "  mumbled  the  Rabbit.  «  A  tail 
everything- !  " 

"  What  is  under  the  earth  ?  "  demanded  the 
Mouse  ;  and  the  Cow  only  stood  still  and  said 
nothing. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  Little  Girl,  putting 
her  hand  over  her  eyes ;  "  it  was  about  the  Ant 
and  the  Bee." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Cow,  "that  was  it.  I  swal- 
lowed it." 

"  And  you  said  it  would  be  worth  nothing 
unless  you  swallowed  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Cow ;  « that  is  it." 

"  Then  tell  me  about  it,"  said  the  Little 
Girl,  getting  a  little  impatient. 

"  It's  gone,"  said  the  Cow.  "  I've  swallowed 
it." 

"  You  can  get  nothing  out  of  her,  do  you 
not  see  ?  "  said  the  Little  Boy.  "  Surely  now 
you  will  listen  to  me !  " 

"  Not  so  fast,  Little  Boy,"  spoke  up  a  harsh 
voice,  which  was  followed  by  a  succession  o< 
little  subdued  duckings,  and  a  great  Koostei 


THE  STORY  THAT  NEVER    WAS  TOLD.     229 

rose  up  before  them,  followed  at  a  respectful 
distance  by  a  hen  and  eleven  chickens. 

"  I  am  here,  Little  Girl." 

"  Then  speak  out,"  said  she,  "  and  tell  me 
what  the  world  is.  .  I  want  no  more  stories  ;  " 
and  the  Little  Girl  seemed  to  speak  almost  in 
the  tones  of  the  Rooster  himself. 

"  The  world  !  The  world  is  a  dung-hill.  I 
scratch  it !  "  and  a  heap  of  dust  flew  over  the 
hen  and  chickens  behind  him.  "  There  is  a 
living  in  it.  But  what  of  that  ?  It  is  good 
for  nothing  except  to  rule  over.  You  have  the 
island.  I  have  the  world.  When  I  like,  I 
shall  kick  it  behind  me.  It  is  nothing.  I 
scratch  it."  And  another  little  cloud  of  dust 
flew  over  the  humble  hen  and  chickens,  while 
the  Rooster  set  up  a  defiant  crow. 

There  was  silence. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  the  Little  Girl  weeping ; 
"  what  has  become  of  the  boat  ?  I  saw  it  until 
now  coming  toward  me,  and  I  felt  sure  that  it 
would  contain  something  better  than  these. 
Little  Boy,  can  you  see  the  boat  ?  " 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  he,  "  and  you  also 
Khali  see  it,"  and  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and 
led  her  down  from  the  mound  and  out  of  the 
bower.  As  she  came  forth  the  music  which 
dad  been  so  long  silent,  struck  up  faintly. 


230  BEFORE    THE  FIRE. 

"  Tra-la-la  !  thrum  !  pweep  !  pop !  " 

But  the  Little  Boy  opened  his  mouth  and 
Bang.  The  words  were  not  many ;  they  were 
simple,  too,  but  the  music  of  his  voice  made 
them  of  worth.  And  as  he  sang,  the  Little 
Girl  listened  and  they  went  further  away  from 
all  the  story-tellers,  down  toward  the  shore. 

Then  he  told  her  stories. 

He  told  her  of  a  happy  day  when  the  sun 
shone  bright,  and  he  was  dancing  over  the 
fields,  and  suddenly  a  new  light  that  was  not 
from  the  sun,  fell  upon  a  rose  which  he  was 
plucking,  and  he  would  not  pluck  the  rose. 
Then  he  told  her  how  he  was  once  floating 
down  the  river  in  a  boat,  listening  to  sweet 
music,  when  one  of  the  notes  seemed  to  wan- 
der off  from  the  rest,  and  to  rise  and  rise  until 
it  touched  the  sky,  when  the  sky  opened, 
and  as  the  little  note  was  lost  to  hearing  a 
great  company  of  heavenly  sounds  received  it. 
And  then  he  told  her  how  he  had  once  gone 
down  into  the  bed  of  a  stream  and  found  gold, 
gold  so  precious  that  when  it  was  crumbled  it 
turned  into  land  and  houses,  and  bread  and 
drink,  and  the  poor  had  been  fed  and  clothed, 
and  the  sick  and  suffering  had  cordials  and 
comforts.  But  there  was  another  story  still 
he  told,  of  what  he  saw  as  he  lay  at  night 


THE  STORY  THAT  NEVER    WAS  TOLD.     231 


watched  the  stars.  He  saw  them  come 
forth  one  by  one,  and  he  began  to  count  them, 
and  as  he  counted  them  they  disappeared  one 
by  one,  and  when  the  last  was  gone  there 
shone  forth  another  star  above  him,  which  was 
so  near  that  it  seemed  to  him  he  could  touch 
it,  and  yet  so  far  away  that  its  light  seemed 
forever  travelling  toward  him. 

"  Will  you  hear  another  story  ?  "  asked  the 
Little  Boy.  "  It  is  my  last.  In  the  middle  of 
the  garden  was  an  island,  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  island  was  a  bower,  and  there  sat  a  Little 
Girl.  The  Kid  and  the  Kitten  sported  before 
her  to  make  her  think  that  the  world  was  all  a 
frolic;  the  Swallows  flew  about  her,  for  the 
world  was  all  an  idle  flight  to  them  ;  the  Ant 
and  the  Bee  left  their  hoarding  to  show  her  that 
the  world  was  a  hollow  tree  full  of  riches  ;  the 
Cow  and  the  Rabbit  and  the  Mouse  came  to- 
gether to  wag  their  wisdom,  and  show  that  the 
world  was  nothing  but  something  to  think 
about;  the  Rooster  came  to  make  her  see  that 
the  world  was  only  good  for  anything  as  it 
made  her  proud,  and  so  as  she  looked  and 
ooked  the  Little  Girl  became  blind.  Then  she 
wept  but  she  could  not  see,  and  then  the  Lit- 
tle Boy  kissed  her  eyes  "  — 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  Little  Girl,  "  I  see  now." 


232  BEFORE,  THE  FIRE. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  see  you,  Love." 

"And  nothing-  else  ?  "  said  Love,  sorrowfully. 

The  Little  Girl  did  not  turn  her  eyes,  but 
she  looked  up  and  said  joyfully,  — 

"  I  see  the  boat  that  once  I  saw." 

"  Come  !  "  and  he  took  her  by  the  hand  as 
they  went  toward  the  boat. 

"  Can  I  leave  the  island  ?  "  said  she,  looking 
back  wistfully. 

"  You  have  not  heard  all  of  the  stories  yet," 
said  he  smiling-. 

"  Then  I  shall  hear  more  from  you !  " 

They  entered  the  boat  and  sailed  away  over 
the  water.  More  stories  were  told  on  the 
island,  but  there  was  one  story  that  never  was 
told.  It  was  the  story  of  what  befell  the  Little 
Girl  who  sailed  away.  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
ear  heard,  neither  hath  entered  the  heart  of 
man  to  conceive  what  happened  afterwards  to 
the  Little  Girl  who  sailed  away. 


ROMANCE. 


ROSE  AND    ROSELLA. 


IN  the  King's  garden  were  all  manner  of 
strange  and  beautiful  plants.  One  might  wan- 
der over  it,  and  fancy  he  had  visited  all  quar- 
ters of  the  globe,  for  there  was  nothing  so 
rare  but  the  Gardener  would  obtain  it,  and 
give  it,  if  need  be,  a  house  all  to  itself  in  the 
great  garden ;  and  not  content  with  having 
what  he  found,  he  was  perpetually  seeking  to 
produce  some  new  kind  of  flower,  which  one 
would  search  the  world  through  in  vain  to  find 
elsewhere.  Everything  was  wonderfully  con- 
trived, everything  was  under  the  most  perfect 
care ;  and  in  the  palace,  when  the  guests  were 
tired  of  dancing  and  feasting,  they  would  say, 
"  Come,  let  us  go  into  the  garden,  and  see 
what  new  thing  the  Gardener  has." 

The  Gardener  himself  was  there,  all  day  long, 
walking  about  the  paths,  dressed  in  a  flowing, 
flowered  gown,  with  a  pruning-knife  in  his 
hand,  looking  so  sharply  at  each  plant,  as  he 


236  ROMANCE 

went  by,  that  one  could  easily  see  it  would  fare 
hard  with  them  if  they  did  not  miud  him.  The 
guests  would  follow  after  and  look  at  the 
plants  he  stopped  before,  and  smell,  and  shut 
one  eye,  and  look  grave,  but  they  never  dared 
pluck  a  single  bud.  The  King  said  openly 
that  he  cared  nothing  for  flowers  after  they 
were  gathered,  and  so  he  never  plucked  any, 
though  of  course  he  could,  for  it  was  his  gar- 
den. 

Now  there  was  in  the  garden  one  plant 
which  was  reckoned  above  all  the  rest  in  value. 
It  had  a  house  over  its  head,  and  was  watched 
by  the  Gardener  more  closely  than  any  other. 
Thither  his  feet  always  turned  when  he  took 
his  tour ;  and  the  guests,  those  who  were  wise, 
would  look  at  each  other  and  say,  —  "  Well, 
shall  we  go  and  look  at  the  Rosella  ?  "  The 
King  even,  would  inquire  in  the  morning  how 
the  Rosella  fared  —  the  mock  Rosella,  he  would 
sometimes  explain  good-naturedly,  looking  at 
the  Princess,  —  but  that  was  when  the  Gar- 
dener was  not  there,  and  the  King  was  famil- 
iar. 

The  Rosella  was  a  rose,  a  rose  so  wonderful 
that  there  was  not  another  in  the  kingdom, 
and  so  not  another  in  the  whole  world,  that 
eould  for  a  moment  be  compared  with  it.  The 


ROSE  AXD  ROSELLA.  237 

Gardener  had  therefore  given  it  the  name  of 
the  Princess  Rosella,  the  only  one  in  the  royal 
family  beside  the  King  and  Queen.  The  Prin- 
cess Rosella  was  as  peerless  among  women  as 
the  flower  Rosella  was  among  roses,  and  a  de- 
cree had  gone  forth  that  no  one  in  the  kingdom 
should  bear  that  name,  and  that  it  should  not 
be  bestowed  upon  any  flower  or  bird,  so  that  it 
passed  into  proverb — Worthy  to  bear  the  name 
of  Rosella. 

The  King  and  Queen  had  selected  from  the 
neighboring  princes,  one  of  high  renown  and 
great  possessions,  whom  they  were  willing  to 
accept  as  the  Princess's  suitor,  and  the  day 
was  at  hand  when  the  ceremony  of  betrothal 
was  to  take  place.  Rosella,  indeed,  had  never 
beheld  the  Prince,  but  she  had  heard  for 
months  of  the  Prince's  famous  horses,  of  his 
chariot,  of  his  buglers,  and  of  the  magnificent 
palace  to  which  he  would  one  day  conduct  her, 
where  she  would  rule  the  court.  The  King 
had  a  fancy  that  the  betrothal  should  take 
place  on  the  day  when  the  consummate  flower 
of  the  Rose  should  unfold  its  petals ;  it  was  to 
be  worn  by  the  Princess,  and  the  world  should 
then  behold  such  splendor  of  beauty  as  never 
before  was  known,  when  the  Princess  Rosella, 
loveliest  of  the  lovely,  should  appear  before 


238  ROMANCE. 

the  court,  adorned  with  the  Rosella  Rose,  most 
glorious  of  glorious  flowers. 

Every  one  watched  eagerly  for  the  promise 
which  the  Rose  should  give  of  the  final  flower- 
ing forth,  and  every  day  tidings  were  brought 
of  what  new  growth  and  expansion  were  ob- 
served, until  at  length  it  was  announced  by 
heralds  that  on  the  morrow  the  betrothal  would 
take  place  in  the  presence  of  the  great  court, 
and  all  who  were  to  take  part  were  bidden 
prepare  for  the  festival. 

n. 

On  the  morning  before  the  betrothal,  the 
Rose,  silently  breathing  and  unfolding,  stood 
in  its  sheltered  home,  guarded  from  sea-winds, 
and  bathed  in  a  gentle  atmosphere  tempered  to 
its  need.  What  more  could  flower  desire? 
what  higher  place  could  be  given  it  on  earth  ? 
opening  its  heart  to  the  tender  air  about  it, 
and  borne  at  last  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
most  splendid  of  the  daughters  of  earth.  Yet 
thoughts,  fancies,  feelings,  memories  were 
wrapped  in  the  opening  leaves,  quite  other 
than  seemed  to  befit  this  favored  flower. 

Its  silent  surroundings  were  broken  now  by 
footfalls  drawing  near,  and  entering  the  house 
came  the  Gardener,  and  with  him  a  young 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  239 

man  who  had  never  before  been  in  the  presence 
of  the  Rose.  They  stood  before  it,  and  the 
Gardener  said,  — 

"  Behold,  Master  Philip,  the  Rosella." 

The  young  man  bowed. 

"  Hear  her  history.  I  found  her  a  paltry 
rose  by  the  sea-shore,  growing  carelessly  with 
so  many  others,  not  to  be  distinguished  by  or- 
dinary eyes.  However,  I  had  not  formed  the 
King's  garden  for  nothing.  I  saw  in  the  thin, 
impoverished  flower  a  germ  of  something 
fairer,  and  I  resolved  that  human  art  should 
not  fail  of  transforming  the  wild,  country  rose 
into  a  flower  meet  for  kings'  palaces.  What- 
ever art  and  experience  could  give  me  I  laid 
before  this  plant.  When  you  see  this  bud 
fairly  open,  then,  Master  Philip,  if  you  have 
eyes,  you  will  read  in  its  leaves  sixteen  years 
of  sun  and  air  and  earth  made  obedient.  Re- 
produce the  rose  you  cannot,  but  I  have  called 
you  in  that  you  may  preserve  for  the  world 
something  of  the  glory  of  the  Rosella  Rose 
when  it  has  passed  away.  Bring  also,  your  art 
to  the  feet  of  this  Rose,  and  lay  on  your  wood 
if  you  can,  some  faint  portraiture  of  its  tran- 
scendent beauty.  Your  time  is  short ;  to-mor- 
row at  mid-day,  the  Rose-bud  now  unfolding 
must  be  plucked  by  my  band,  and  given  to  the 


240  ROMANCE. 

Princess  as  she  goes  to  receive  the  Prince  hei 
betrothed." 

The  young1  Painter,  for  such  he  was,  an- 
swered lightly,  — 

u  Have  no  fear,  Master  Gardener,  the  Rose 
shall  grow  again  on  my  panel,"  and  he  sat 
down  before  it,  humming  to  himself.  Again 
were  steps  heard,  and  now  came  the  King  and 
Queen,  who  were  taking  their  morning  walk, 
and  must  needs  regard  the  Rose.  The  Gar- 
dener made  his  obeisance,  and  proceeded  to 
explain  the  presence  of  the  young  man  who 
was  working  steadily  on. 

"  It  is  a  humble  friend  of  mine,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  tone,  "who  has  shown  some  skill  in 
painting,  and  whom  I  have  employed  to  make 
a  picture  of  the  Rosella  Rose,  tbat  I  may  have 
something  to  show  when  the  original  is  gone. 
He  is  a  worthy  young  man  whom  I  can  trust 
here." 

The  King  nodded  and  advanced  to  where 
the  Painter  sat. 

"  Work  on,  young  man,"  said  he.  "  Don't 
mind  me.  A  king  is  a  king,  and  a  rose  is  a 
rose.  Now  I  dare  say  you  will  make  this  hand- 
some. Pluck  a  rose,  leave  a  rose,  rose  it  ia 
still." 

"  You  know,  perhaps,"  put  in  the  Queen 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  241 

'*  that  the  Rose  is  to  be  worn  by  the  Princess 
&t  her  betrothal  ?  That  takes  place  to-morrow, 
I  suppose.  Dear  me !  how  the  world  goes 
round  ;  I  shall  be  glad  when  it  is  over,"  and 
the  Queen,  who  was  heated,  fanned  herself 
with  a  peacock  feather  fan. 

"  Expect  nothing,  and  nothing  will  trouble 
yon,"  said  the  King,  sagely.  "  If  now,  we 
were  to  begin  to  wonder  what  would  happen 
if  the  Princess  should  decide  to  have  her  own 
way,  when  the  question  was  asked,  what  folly 
it  would  be.  Easy  come,  easy  go.  Knock  an 
apple  down  with  a  stick  and  eat  it ;  climb  the 
tree  and  the  worm  has  ate  it.  When  the  stone 
begins  to  roll,  get  behind  it." 

"  Well,  I  never  can  answer  you,"  said  the 
Queen  ;  "  but  it  don't  make  things  go  right  to 
let  them  take  care  of  themselves.  Come,  let 
us  look  after  Rosella." 

The  couple  went  away,  and  the  Gardener 
looked  at  the  Painter  carefully. 

"  There  are  some  things,"  said  he,  "  that 
even  kings  do  not  know.  Gardening  is  one, 
and  —  pictures  are  another." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  with  a  laugh,  "  one 
may  not  be  a  king,  and  yet  be  ignorant.  Does 
the  Princess  also  pay  visils  to  the  Rose  ?  '* 

"  Hark  !  there  she  is  coming  now.     I  think 

16 


242  ROMANCE. 

I  will  go  for  a  watering-pot,"  and  to  the  Paint- 
er's surprise,  the  Gardener  went  hastily  out 
of  the  little  house  just  as  the  Princess  entered 
it.  As  she  entered,  Philip  rose  and  bowed, 
and  then  stood  until  the  Princess  said  :  — 

"  Go  on,  master ;  we  all  obey  the  Rose 
here." 

Philip  took  his  place  again  before  the  panel, 
and  as  he  worked,  the  Princess  looked  over  his 
shoulder. 

"When  you  paint  that  flower,"  said  she, 
"  do  you  think  all  the  time  what  a  fine  thing 
it  will  be  to  have  painted  the  Rosella  Rose  ? 
Is  it  that  makes  yo«  work  so  diligently  ?  " 

"  0,  I  never  find  this  irksome ;  though,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  should  not  probably  have 
chosen  this  flower ;  but  the  Gardener  set  me 
tlown  before  it." 

"  And  the  Gardener  will  put  the  picture  in 
his  gallery,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Princess, 
mockingly. 

"  Is  it  strange  that  he  should  wish  to  keep 
some  likeness  of  the  flower  which  he  has 
reared  so  carefully  ? 

"  O,  that  is  well  enough,  I  suppose.  But 
tell  me,  do  you  see  any  beauty  in  that  Rose  ? 
I  do  not.  I  think  it  is  detestable." 

"  No  flower,"  said  the  Painter,  looking  a. 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  243 

Bosella's  beautiful  face,  now  flushed  with  some 
secret  temper,  u  no  flower  can  be  wholly  ruined 
by  man,  when  the  rain  and  sun  and  kindly 
earth  make  up  the  great  sum  of  its  nourish- 
ment. Look  at  those  leaves ;  the  color  is 
deepened,  but  human  art  had  not  done  it, 
without  nature  had  been  willing  to  lend  her 
aid." 

"  I  think  it  is  detestable,"  repeated  the 
Princess,  petulantly.  "  It  grows  uglier  to  me 
every  time  I  see  it.  It  looks  as  if  the  Gar- 
dener fed  it  with  wine  every  hour.  And  yet," 
she  added,  sighing,  "  all  the  roses  in  the  gar- 
den look  in  the  same  way.  Tell  me,  have  you 
ever  seen  anything  different  ?  Every  one  here 
goes  about  the  garden  with  his  hands  up  at 
every  frightful  green  and  yellow  thing." 

The  Painter  drew  forth  from  a  case  a  little 
painting  which  he  laid  in  the  Princess's  hands. 
She  looked  long  and  wistfully  at  it.  It  was  a 
picture  of  wild  roses.  Green  flags  rose  to  the 
eye,  about  which  gathered  a  few  solitary  roses, 
open  to  sunlight,  wind,  and  rain,  their  shell- 
like  transparency  deepening  into  a  more  glow- 
ing hue,  as  if  along  their  tender  veins  ran  at 
times  the  warmest  life.  They  laid  their  faces 
against  the  broad  flags,  or  peeped  merrily  at 
each  other  from  behind  them.  Nothing  of  tho 


244  ROMANCE. 

country  about  or  beyond  could  be  seen ;  but 
the  background  of  the  picture  had  iu  it  faint 
touches  of  color,  now  deeper  green,  now  pur- 
ple, now  hazy  distance,  that  made  oue,  looking 
at  it,  begin  to  fancy,  according  to  pleasure, 
the  sweetest  and  most  mysterious  landscape. 

She  laid  the  picture  down  and  went  quietly 
out  of  the  little  house.  Philip  returned  to  his 
task.  He  was  busy  with  thought,  as  his  hands 
moved  at  work,  and  did  not  notice  that  the 
Princess  returned,  and  was  watching  him. 
His  lips  began  to  move,  and  soon,  half  to  him- 
self, half  aloud,  came  the  words  of  a  song  :  — 

"  Marina,  Marina,  my  rose  by  the  sea, 
Come  back,  come  back,  come  back  to  me." 

The  Princess  touched  him  on  the  shoulder, 
then  drew  her  hand  hastily  away. 

"  If  you  can  paint  such  flowers,  why  do  you 
paint  this  rose  ?  " 

"  This  also  is  a  rose." 

"  This  a  rose  !  how  unlike  the  Rosella  !  " 

"  Both  like  and  unlike,  lady.  Once,  years 
a<ro,  as  the  Gardener  tells  me,  this  Rose  which 

o  * 

he  cherishes  so  jealously,  lived  simply  and 
freely  in  some  pasture,  or  beside  some  brook. 
He  saw  in  it  the  germ  of  a  rich  and  elegant 
flower,  and  he  brought  it  hither,  resolved  that 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  245 

it  should  some  day  excel  in  beauty  and  fame 
all  the  roses  of  the  laud.  Behold  the  Rosella  ! 
You  see  only  the  Gardener's  toil  and  art ;  but 
look  more  closely  at  this  open  bud  beside  my 
picture,  and  see  if  you  cannot  discover  some 
recollection  in  it  of  its  earlier  days." 

The  Princess  obeyed.  As  she  looked  stead- 
fastly the  Rosella  seemed,  in  her  imagination, 
to  drop,  one  by  one,  its  costly  robes,  to  give 
back  all  that  had  been  expended  on  it,  to  re- 
cover its  lost  simplicity  and  native  freshness ; 
looking  no  longer  at  the  picture,  but  only  at 
the  flower  she  had  despised,  the  Princess  be- 
gan to  see  faint  outlines  of  a  country  where  it 
seemed  to  dwell.  Perhaps  a  humid  veil  be- 
fore her  eyes  was  the  mist  which  seemed  to 
rise  over  a  stretch  of  sea ;  perhaps  it  was  the 
remembrance  of  Philip's  little  picture  which 
spread  before  her  sight  green  meadow  lands, 
and  a  rippling  brook  overhung  with  wild  roses. 
"  Where  did  you  paint  this  ?  "  she  at  last 
asked. 

Philip  began,  "  Lady "  —  when  steps  were 
heard,  and  the  King  and  Queen  again  entered 
the  little  Rose  house. 

"  Well,  Rosella,"  began  the  Queen,  "  we 
have  searched  for  you  this  hour,  and  now  we 
have  at  last  reached  you.5' 


246  ROMANCE. 

"  Yes,"  sai\l  the  King,  "  we  have  found  her. 
Now  there  are  no  more  troubles  eh  ?  Keep 
what  you  find,  and  forget  what  you  lose." 

"  A  pretty  way,  indeed,"  said  the  Queen,  in 
a  heat.  "  What  comfort  could  one  take  then  ? 
Rosella,  we  must  go.  There  is  so  much  yet  to 
be  done,  and  that  great  assembly  to-night.  I 
wish  in  my  heart  it  were  over." 

"  Or  never  begun,"  suggested  the  King. 

"  No,  indeed ;  of  course  it  must  be  begun ; 
but  there  is  an  end  to  everything." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  the  King, 
walking  off  behind  them. 

Philip  remained  by  the  Rose  till  the  sun 
went  down.  He  was  loath  to  leave  it,  and  as 
he  went  away  from  it,  a  strange  feeling  began 
to  possess  him.  He  scarcely  knew  why,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  he  would  rather  remain  by 
the  Rose  than  meet  again  the  mistress  of  the 
Rose.  But  once  more  in  the  free  air,  he 
stepped  forth  into  heightened  life.  "Nay," 
said  he,  to  himself,  "  I  will  have  all,  nor  stop 
like  a  fool  content  to  dream  over  the  likeness 
Df  the  thing  itself." 

Could  he  now  have  revisited  the  Rose,  with 
khe  finer  sense  which  some  have,  he  might 
nave  observed  its  perturbation  and  listened  to 
its  sighing. 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  247 

Alone  in  its  treasure-house,  the  Rosella 
Rose,  cherished  with  constant  care,  and  sep- 
arated from  all  meaner  things,  kept  folding 
and  unfolding  its  leaves,  as  thoughts  rose  and 
fell  within  its  bosom.  It  needed  not  the  words 
of  the  Gardener  and  their  repetition  by  the 
Painter,  for  it  to  know  that  its  secret  life  was 
something  more  than  the  Gardener  had  given 
it.  But  when  Philip's  picture  was  placed  be- 
side it,  there  stirred  within  its  depths  the  old 
nature  never  yet  driven  forth  by  the  Gar- 
dener's art.  Again  the  sea-breeze  sent  strong, 
sinewy  life  through  its  fibres,  the  meadows 
stretched  out  under  the  blue  sky,  the  little 
brook  that  coursed  through  them  rippled  un- 
der her  living  roots,  and  the  tiny  cock-boats 
which  the  children  launched  danced  gayly  down 
the  stream ;  the  children's  laughter  glanced 
through  the  bushes,  their  voices  sought  one 
another,  and  now  pushing  aside  the  twigs  and 
osiers  with  their  hands,  their  pretty  faces 
peeped  into  the  water,  and  looked  up  into  the 
gentle  roses  that  looked  down  on  them  from 

the  bush. 

HI. 

In  the  palace  at  evening  the  guests  were 
all  gathered,  the  lights  shone  brilliantly  in 
>all  and  gallery  and  vaulted  room.  The  music 


248  ROMANCE. 

Bounded  far  or  near,  as  it  obeyed  the  will 
of  the  band-master,  who  seemed  to  follow 
with  his  notes  the  passing  footsteps  of  the 
throng-  who  swarmed  in  and  out.  The  King 
and  Queen  were  there  on  the  dais,  and  the 
Princess  by  them.  The  betrothing  Prince  was 
not  there.  He  was  with  his  retinue  outside 
in  camp,  for  he  had  not  yet  seen  the  Prin- 
cess, and  was  not  to  see  her  until  the  morrow. 
But  gentlemen  from  his  court  were  there, 
who  spread  marvelous  tales  of  all  the  splen- 
did preparations  that  had  been  made  for  the 
Princess  when  she  should  finally  enter  her 
new  realm;  and  it  was  whispered  that  the 
Prince  would  be  a  most  obsequious  consort, 
who  would  gallantly  bow  before  the  Princess  at 
every  step  of  her  grand  career.  She  was  glori- 
ous indeed  to  look  upon  ;  rich  in  all  the  splen- 
dor which  could  be  arrayed  on  her  queenly  form, 
and  richer  still  in  the  deep  color  which  ebbed 
and  flowed  in  her  restless  face.  Yet  now  and 
then  a  strange  light  stole  into  her  eye,  and 
it  was  as  if  she  looked  through  the  shadowy 
forms  thronging  around  her,  beyond  the  thin 
walls  of  the  palace;  but  the  soul  thus  sent 
out  on  its  journeying  came  back  again;  the 
light  died  down,  and  some  royal  word  fled 
from  her  lips  which  shot  a  courtier  and  made 
lis  face  tingle  with  the  wound. 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  249 

"  She  is  magnificent  to-night,"  they  whis- 
pered to  one  another. 

"  May  the  Prince  prize  her  magnificence," 
thought  the  wounded  courtier. 

"Yes,  splendid  enough,"  was  the  response 
of  one ;  "  thank  Heaven,  we  shall  soon  hear 
the  end  of  Rosella." 

"Plucked  and  thrown  away  at  last,"  said 
another,  jestingly.  "  The  Eose  and  Rosella  — 
will  they  have  the  same  fortune  ?  " 

In  the  quiet  of  the  night,  Philip  walked 
into  the  dark  recesses  of  the  garden,  and 
hearing  a  brook,  moved  toward  it,  resting  at 
length  upon  a  rude  bench  beneath  a  willow, 
past  which  flowed  the  little  stream,  falling 
noiselessly  over  a  sandy  bed.  As  he  watched 
and  listened,  his  memory  seemed  to  slip  along 
with  the  movement  of  the  waters,  forth  from 
the  garden  and  the  day  into  the  world,  out 
among  other  lands  where  he  had  wandered, 
to  the  place  of  his  childhood,  and  from  that 
faint  remembrance,  his  mind  travelled  down 
l,gain  over  his  varied  years  to  the  King's 
garden  and  to  the  Princess  Rosella. 

A  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder  and  quickly 
withdrawn.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Sit  down,  Master  Philip,"  said  the  Prin- 


250  ROMANCE. 

cess,  *(  and  I  will  sit  beside  thee;  I  could  not 
rest  and  I  came  here.  This  is  my  seat;  I  sit 
here  often  and  look  at  the  brook.  It  is  a 
strange  brook ;  I  know  not  why  it  should 
flow  over  a  sandy  bed ;  it  should  have  pebbles 
to  flow  over,  and  then  it  would  sing.  Did 
you  ever  hear  a  brook  that  flowed  over  peb- 
bles ?  " 

"  Lady  Rosella,"  said  the  Painter,  looking 
still  into  the  brook,  "  such  simple  things  as 
I  have  seen  and  known  have  little  charm  for 
those  that  dwell  in  this  palace  or  walk  in  the 
King's  grounds.  Yet  something  there  is 
which  belongs  to  all.  This  brook  itself,  so 
I  must  think,"  and  he  lifted  his  eyes  as  if 
he  would  search  for  its  outlet  —  "  this  brook 
surely  is  the  same  which  flows  by  my  home, 
and  loses  itself  in  the  meadows  by  the  great 
sea.  Beside  it  I  have  walked ;  I  have  listened 
to  its  voice;  I  have  launched  my  childish 
craft  in  it  and  parted  the  bushes  to  see  how 
the  cockle  boats  fared,  and  found  roses,  such 
as  I  have  painted  in  my  picture,  looking  down 
into  the  water.  But  I  did  not  know  till  now 
that  the  brook  issued  from  the  little  spring 
above  us  here  and  flowed  through  the  King's 
garden  and  out  into  the  world." 

"  Tell  me  more  of  your  home  and  of  the 
sea-shore." 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  251 

"  The  sea  breaks  upon  the  coast  in  long 
waves,  and  summer  and  winter  one  hears  its 
unceasing1  fall ;  now  violent  and  stormy,  beat- 
ing at  the  beach  as  if  it  would  find  entrance 
to  some  hidden  world,  now  gently,  as  if  laying 
down  its  weariness  upon  a  friendly  bosom. 
A  promontory  juts  out  like  a  great  boar's 
head  into  the  ocean,  and  there  I  have  stood 
at  the  going  down  of  the  sun  and  looked 
westward  over  the  marshes,  where  the  tall 
reeds  rise  out  of  the  muddy  waters,  and  the 
wide  waste  seems  aglow  with  some  wondrous 
life  which  flames  forth  only  as  the  day  passes 
into  the  night." 

"  And  who  live  by  this  strange  place  ?  " 
"A  few  simple  fishermen  and  sea-farers; 
my  own  parents  were  such ;  now  they  are 
gone,  and  there  remains  one  only  whom  I 
care  much  to  visit.  He  is  my  dearest  earthly 
friend.  He  moved  my  soul  with  poetic  words 
when  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the  reedy 
marshes  moved  me  with  their  language.  He 
dwells  alone,  and  in  that  little  gathering  of 
plain  people,  he  is  the  voice  that  utters  their 
best  thoughts,  and  to  him  they  come  with 
Jieir  troubles  and  their  joys ;  he  says  not  much 
to  them,  but  by  and  by  they  learn  from  him 
a  song  which  is  now  to  then  their  own  heart, 
oeating  in  words." 


252  ROMANCE. 

"  Sing  me  one  of  his  songs." 

"  I  think  of  one  that  came  to  him  in  thia 
wise.  There  was  a  fisherman  who  had  a  child, 
and  the  child  died ;  and  he  thought  to  himself, 
—  the  living  sea  is  better  than  the  dark  ground ; 
so  men  bore  the  child  out  beyond  the  tide  and 
buried  it  there,  garlanded  with  the  roses  that 
it  loved  to  play  with,  and  old  Egbert,  who 
knew  how  the  fisherman  yearned  for  his  child, 
wrote  these  words.  It  was  said,  too,  that  they 
were  less  what  the  poet  thought  for  the  fisher- 
man than  drawn  from  his  own  grief,  for  he 
had  lost  a  child,  years  before,  whose  death 
and  burial  he  never  had  seen." 

Philip  sang  :  — 

"  0  wave,  nprearing  on  the  sands, 

Thou  hast  ridden  hard,  hast  ridden  far ; 

Bring  me  no  word  from  foreign  lands, 
Drop  me  no  light  from  distant  star : 

Out  of  the  depths  of  the  sunless  sea, 

Bring  back  my  little  one  to  me. 

"  O  wave  that  ripplest  on  the  beach, 

Thou  laughest  low,  thou  laughest  light 

Bring  me  no  mocking  sea-sprite's  speech, 
Sing  me  no  song  of  moony  night : 

My  child  lies  low  in  the  silent  sea, 

Bring  back  her  tender  voice  to  me. 

*•  I  sent  her  away  with  the  roses  red, 

I  kissed  her  cheek,  and  kissed  her  hand 


j  ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  253 

And  she  has  made  her  curtained  bed 

'Neath  dark  sea-waves  on  flinty  sand. 
Come  forth,  come  forth  from  the  midnight  sea, 
0  little  child,  come  back  to  me." 

"  And  has  he  then  a  word  for  every  troubled 
heart  ?  " 

"  He  has  words  for  all,  for  he  has  never 
shut  his  love  up  within  himself,  or  suffered 
any  unworthy  object  to  draw  it  from  him. 
Nevertheless,  those  whom  men  drive  from 
them  he  receives,  for  he  sees  in  them  not  that 
for  which  men  thrust  them  forth,  hut  that 
which  is  the  beginning  of  heaven  in  them." 

"  The  moon  has  risen,  the  night  is  nearly 
gone,"  said  the  Princess ;  "  come  with  me  a  few 
steps  that  I  may  show  you  the  beginning  of 
this  brook." 

They  rose  from  the  seat,  and  climbing  a 
little  knoll,  came  to  the  spring  from  which  the 
brook  set  forth  on  its  journey ;  but  as  the  water 
rose  to  the  ground,  it  fell  over  a  rocky  steep, 
and  was  caught  for  a  moment  in  a  marble 
basin,  and  then,  falling  over  its  sides,  slipped 
down  a  smooth  stone  to  its  channel,  and  so 
went  moving  onward.  By  the  light  of  the 
moon  they  could  see  the  figures  which  nature 
and  art  had  drawn  upon  the  marble.  A  cling- 
'ng  moss  was  slowly  forming  over  it,  and 


254  ROMANCE. 

the  grass  was  growing  rank  above  it,  while 
on  the  sides  of  the  basin  had  been  sculptured 
laughing  Loves  that  formed  an  encircling, 
merry  company.  In  the  moonlight  they 
seemed  alive,  dancing  in  speechless  merriment 
to  silent  music.  The  two  stood  by  the  foun- 
tain, listening  to  the  fall  of  the  water,  and  then 
slowly  returned  to  the  rude  seat  by  the  willow. 

The  Princess  stood  looking  into  the  water  in 
a  reverie,  and  then,  turning  to  Philip,  said,  — 

"  The  old  man  of  whom  you  spoke  —  does 
he  still  live  ?  " 

"  Yes,  lady." 

She  drew  her  robe  about  her  and  half  turn- 
ing away,  spoke  again,  — 

"  Master  Philip,  shall  you  paint  to-morrow 
in  the  Rose-house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lady  Rosella." 

"And  when  you  have  finished  your  work 
you  will  go  away  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  that  should  keep  me  here 
but  your  command." 

"  I  would  that  I  might  send  something  to 
old  Egbert.  He  would  not  care  for  the  Rosella 
Rose  ?  You  know  I  despised  that." 

"  He  would  despise  nothing  that  came  with 
love. " 

"  To-morrow,  then,  I  will  send  him  the 
flower.  Good-night." 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  255 

She  had  spoken  with  her  face  averted,  but 
now  she  turned  full  upon  him.  In  the  clear 
moonlight  her  eyes  rested  upon  him  with  a 
soft,  gentle  look.  She  even  smiled,  as  she  had 
not  smiled  that  night,  and  then  turned  away. 
He  took  a  step  as  if  to  follow  her. 

"  Do  not  come  with  me,"  she  said,  "  I  must 
go  to  the  palace  alone." 

He  watched  her  retreating  form,  till  it  was 
hidden  in  the  shadow  and  he  saw  her  no  more. 

IV. 

A  clash  of  cymbals  !  a  beating  of  drums  ! 
a  blare  of  trumpets!  On  the  roof  of  the 
palace  the  flags  are  flying,  banners  waving 
back  and  forth,  and  long  pennants  stream 
gayly  out,  striving  to  detach  themselves,  as  it 
were,  and  fly  over  the  palace  and  garden  and 
camp,  to  see  what  wonderful  sights  are  filling 
all  eyes.  In  the  camp  without  the  gates, 
horses  stand  champing  their  bits  and  impa- 
tiently pawing  as  they  hear  the  distant  drum 
beat,  and  the  gentlemen  and  attendants  are 
.busy  preparing  for  the  joyous  entrance  into 
the  royal  domain. 

Philip,  painting  the  Bosella  Rose,  heard  the 
music  and  distant  shouts.  It  was  mid-morn- 
ing, and  his  work  was  not  vet  done,  but  at 


256  ROMANCE. 

noon  he  knew  the  procession  of  maidens  would 
come,  attending  the  Princess  Rosella,  to  gather 
the  wonderful  Rose.  So  he  worked  diligently 
on,  wondering  meanwhile  to  himself  how  the 
Princess  would  manage  to  give  him  the  rose 
from  the  bush  which  he  was  to  bear  to  Egbert. 

The  Rosella  Rose  herself  must  have  been 
aware  that  her  hour  was  at  hand.  Slowly  she 
unrolled  her  leaves,  receiving  the  warm  breath 
and  the  occasional  gentle,  moist  shower  which 
the  Gardener,  ever  attendant,  bestowed  upon 
her.  She  was  not  alone,  for  these  two  were 
there,  and  yet  each,  intent  on  his  occupation, 
were  witless  of  the  solemn  movement,  deep  in 
the  heart  of  the  Rose.  Was  its  hour  really 
coming?  It  was  the  consummate  production 
of  nature  and  art ;  when  it  was  gathered  and 
placed  on  the  bosom  of  the  lovely  Princess,  the 
sharp  pang  which  separated  it  from  the  plant 
was  to  be  the  token  of  an  end  to  each.  For 
itself,  it  was  to  linger  a  short  hour  in  its  place 
of  glory,  but  the  plant  was  to  be  burned  and 
pass  out  of  existence.  Nevertheless,  a  sweet 
sense  of  future  good  possessed  it  which  left 
far  behind  the  momentary  glory. 

"  You  must  now  go,"  said  the  Gardener  at 
last  to  the  Painter,  who  was  putting  a  fina. 
touch  to  his  painting.  "  The  Rosella  Rose  is 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  257 

at  length  to  receive  its  glorious  reward."  He 
stood  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
holding  his  pruning-knife,  for  though  in  state, 
he  could  not  be  himself  without  his  insignia 
of  office.  "  For  these  many  years  I  have 
watched  and  tended  the  Rose.  I  confess  to  a 
feeling  of  regret  that  it  is  now  to  pass  away 
forever,  but  then  it  is  to  receive  the  highest 
honor,  and  that  is  much.  I  believe  too,  Philip, 
that  I  am  to  be  knighted.  Hark  !  they  are 
coming." 

Philip  left  the  Rose-house,  but  lingered  by 
it,  in  the  shrubbery.  The  Gardener  stood 
beside  the  Rose,  as  its  faithful  guardian,  to 
abide  by  it  to  the  end.  The  sound  of  music 
was  heard,  faintly  and  in  regular  cadence ; 
light  measured  foot-falls  sounded  nearer,  and 
then,  winding  with  the  path,  came  the  little 
pageant.  Maidens  in  sweet  company  bore,  some 
plaintive  music-reeds,  some  silken  banners. 
They  were  without  adornment,  but  their  beau- 
ty shone  forth,  heightened  by  the  green  foli- 
age, and  by  the  darting  hither  and  thither  of 
the  golden  orioles  that  flew  above  their  heads. 
In  the  midst  moved  the  Princess  Rosella,  clad 
not  in  white  as  were  the  rest,  but  in  a  pale 
sea-green  robe  which  floated  from  her  in  wav- 
ing folds.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  the  pro- 

17 


858  ROMANCE. 

cession,  which  parted  at  the  door- way,  leaving 
her  to  enter  the  little  bower  alone.  It  had 
been  granted  the  Gardener  as  a  special  favor 
that  he  should  sever  the  Rose  from  the  bush 
and  present  it  to  the  Princess,  and  accordingly 
he  stood  beside  it  with  his  knife,  awaiting  her 
coming.  She  entered,  and  bowing  to  the 
Gardener,  said,  — 

"  Wilt  thou,  Master  Gardener,  give  me  to 
wear  the  Rose  which  thou  hast  nourished  so 
long  and  carefully  ?  " 

"  Princess  Rosella,  most  beautiful  of  women, 
I  adorn  thee  with  a  new  grace,  the  mingled 
gift  of  nature  and  art.  Wear  it  on  thy 
bosom." 

"  And  is  it  mine  to  hold  and  to  bestow,  lay- 
ing it  in  whatsoever  hand  I  will  ?  " 

"  Princess  Rosella,  who  now  bearest  the 
Rosella  Rose,  it  is  thine  without  recall,  to  hold 
or  to  bestow." 

The  Princess  left  the  bower,  adorned  with 
the  glorious  Rose.  There  burst  forth  from  the 
lips  of  the  maidens,  receiving  her  again,  a 
joyous  song,  and  with  twittering  of  birds  and 
music  they  moved  toward  the  palace,  where 
the  grand  ceremony  was  to  be  observed,  the 
Princess  Rosella  to  be  betrothed  to  the  Prince 
Gladiolus,  and  to  lay  in  his  hand  as  token  the 
Rosella  Rose. 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  259 

The  Painter  lingered  about  the  Rose-house, 
but  its  glory  was  gone,  and  he,  too,  moved 
toward  the  palace.  Something  drew  him 
away,  however;  some  feeling  which  led  him  to 
turn  his  back  on  all  the  gorgeous  pageantry 
and  to  seek  again  the  willow  and  the  secluded 
seat  overhanging  the  brook.  In  the  broad 
daylight  there  was  a  different  look  about  the 
place,  and  Philip,  remembering  her  word  of 
the  night  before,  said  to  himself,  "  Let  her 
carry  the  flower  herself,  if  she  will.  There 
was  no  daylight  on  her  promise."  He  kept  on 
by  the  brook-side,  watching  its  course  and  fol- 
lowing its  little  turns.  He  was  leaving  the 
palace  and  all  behind,  and  in  his  heart  he  felt 
a  strong  desire  to  go  back  to  his  old  home. 
Thither  he  bent  his  steps. 

At  that  moment  the  procession  of  maidens 
had  reached  the  palace  court.  Music  flowed 
from  every  turret  and  tower,  rising  and  falling 
like  the  waving  flags  which  sprang  into  the 
air.  From  the  gate  on  the  other  side  ad- 
vanced, at  the  same  time,  the  cavalcade  of 
Prince  Gladiolus,  in  crimson  and  golden  trap- 
pings, with  loud,  joyous  blare  of  trumpets  and 
resonance  of  horns.  The  court-yard  was  a 
wondrous  fold  of  rare  beauty  and  mighty 
lalor.  Upon  a  throne  sat  the  King  and  Queen. 


3860  ROMANCE. 

The  King  smiled  good-naturedly,  as  it'  the  cere- 
mony would  otherwise  be  too  full  of  pomp,  but 
the  Queen's  eye  wandered  restlessly  over  the 
gathering,  fearful  of  some  misplacement  or 
calamity. 

The  Prince  and  Princess  advanced  to  the 
foot  of  the  throne,  and  stood  face  to  face.  For 
the  first  time  Rosella  looked  upon  Gladiolus, 
and  saw  his  royal  bearing  and  courtly  grace. 
A  herald  advanced. 

"  Good  masters  all,  loyal  subjects  of  our 
Sovereign  Lord  and  our  Sovereign  Lady,  gen- 
tlemen of  the  court  of  the  puissant  Prince 
Gladiolus,  hear  our  words.  The  Prince  has 
sought  the  hand  of  the  royal  Princess  Rosella, 
fairest  of  women,  and  would  lay  at  her  feet  his 
kingdom,  his  crown,  and  his  own  royal  per- 
son. The  law  of  the  laud  is  just  and  righteous. 
The  King  commands  the  betrothal,  and  the 
royal  Princess  shall  bestow  upon  the  kneeling 
royal  Prince  a  guerdon  of  her  devoted  af- 
fection, whereupon  he  shall  rise  and  seal  his 
troth  with  a  token  of  his  knightly  honor  and 
royal  protection.  The  law  of  the  land  is  just 
and  righteous.  Hearken  to  the  forfeit.  It  is 
declared  now,  as  it  ever  has  been  declared  in 
the  realm,  that  no  princess  shall  receive  a 
suitor  against  her  will  and  consent ;  but  if  any 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  261 

aoble  princess  be  contumacious  in  the  presence 
of  the  sovereign  and  court,  then  shall  her 
robes  of  state  be  stripped  from  her,  and  she 
shall  be  cast  forth  from  the  presence  of  the 
noble  and  mighty.  O  King,  live  forever." 

Loud  from  the  mouths  of  trumpets  and 
horns  burst  the  glad  music,  high  above  the 
sounding  drums  and  clash  of  cymbals  rose  the 
fine  melody  of  the  stringed  instruments,  and 
then,  as  the  soft  flutes  breathed  a  blessing,  the 
King  rose  from  his  chair  of  state,  saying :  — 

"  Kneel,  Gladiolus ;  receive  the  guerdon." 

"Kise,  Prince  Gladiolus,  untouched  by  my 
hand." 

It  was  the  Princess  Rosella  who,  with  hands 
clasped  before  her,  spoke  low.  There  was  a  tu- 
mult in  the  crowd.  "  What  said  she?  "  "  Does 
not  receive  him  ?  "  "  Abandons  all  ?  "  were  the 
questions  that  passed  from  lips  to  lips;  and 
hushed  voices  whispered,  "  See  the  Prince  !  " 

Gladiolus  had  risen  at  the  word,  and  with 
face  aglow  and  eyes  of  fire,  struck  his  hand 
upon  his  sword,  while  his  gentlemen  flashed 
their  poniards  in  the  air  and  cried,  "  Treach- 
ery! treachery!" 

"  Take  her  away !  take  her  away !  "  cried 
the  Queen,  in  a  paroxysm  of  anger.  "  Take 
her  away  !  She  is  no  child  of  mine  that  would 
disgrace  me  thus  !  " 


262  ROMANCE. 

"  Let  her  go !  let  her  go !  "  said  the  old 
King,  turning  uneasily  from  one  side  to  an- 
other. "  Get  her  out  of  the  way.  Don't  let 
me  see  her.  Don't  let  me  see  her  any  more 
at  all." 

The  court-yard  was  in  an  uproar,  some  de- 
claring one  thing,  some  another.  The  cour- 
tiers who  had  looked  significantly  at  one  an- 
other during  the  occasion,  now  said  openly, 
that,  Princess  or  no  Princess,  they  had  hated 
her  from  the  beginning,  and  knew  that  evil 
would  come  from  her  in  some  shape.  The 
Prince  and  his  retinue  rode  angrily  away,  and 
bitter  threats  of  open  war  were  flung  on  every 
side.  The  musicians  slunk  away,  and  the  ban- 
ners and  streamers  and  flags  drooped  heavily, 
as  a  sultry,  motionless  air  enveloped  the  place. 

Most  angry  of  all  was  the  Gardener,  who 
exclaimed  bitterly,  — 

"  Is  this  the  end  of  my  years  of  toil  and 
care  ?  To  be  thrown  away  on  a  shrewish,  low- 
born girl,  who  has  laughed  at  me  and  jibed  at 
me,  morning  and  night.  Curses  on  her  head. 
May  she  make  her  bed  in  mire,  and  on  the 
sands  of  the  sea-shore !  " 

He  ran  to  the  Rose-house,  and  madly  snatch- 
ing at  the  cherished  bush,  though  its  thorns 
pierced  his  quivering  hands,  he  bore  it  into  the 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  26i 

»pen  air,  and  flung  it  with  fury  as  far  as  his 
frenzied  strength  could  impel  it. 

There  was  a  gathering  by  the  palace  of  some 
who  were  curious  to  see  the  expulsion  of  the 
Princess,  doubting  not  that  some  ceremony 
would  take  place,  not  indeed  so  brilliant  as 
that  which  had  been  interrupted,  but  even 
more  pleasing  to  them. 

"  There  she  is  !  there  she  is !  "  at  last  was 
the  cry,  as  the  great  door  of  the  palace  was 
opened  and  a  figure  came  forward,  passed  the 
portal,  and  stood  outside  for  a  moment.  The 
door  closed  behind  her,  and  a  pale,  beggarly 
clad  maiden,  with  her  hands  clasped  over  her 
bosom,  stepped  forth,  descended  the  staircase, 
and  moved  down  the  garden.  Rosella,  for  she  it 
was,  seemed  heedless  of  the  curious  gathering, 
only  watchful,  apparently,  that  the  Rose  which 
she  sheltered  on  her  bosom,  received  no  harm. 
Yet  while  every  eye  was  turned  upon  her,  none 
did  more  than  whisper.  No  voice  was  raised, 
and  the  ranks  divided  as  she  passed  through 
the  midst  of  them.  In  the  days  of  her  gran- 
deur Rosella's  queenly  mien  awed  the  people, 
but  now  there  was  another  spirit  in  her  pres- 
ence which  hushed  them  and  kept  them  bound 
ty  a  gentle  spell.  None  followed  her,  and  she 
/coked  not  behind  but  kept  on,  past  the  Rose- 


264  ^  ROMANCE. 

house,  to  the  willow  and  to  the  bench  hy  the 
brook-side.  Here  she  sat  her  down  for  one 
moment,  here  she  kneeled  on  the  green  turf, 
and,  rising  up,  began  to  follow  the  windings  of 
the  stream,  on,  on,  beyond  the  garden,  beyond 
the  palace  park,  on  into  green  fields  and 
through  dark  woods. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  but  the  hot 
air  which  had  weighed  heavily  on  the  earth, 
was  now  full  of  ominous  portents.  Low  rum- 
ble of  a  gathering  storm  broke  on  the  ear, 
and  added  to  it  was  the  sullen  roar  of  the  dis- 
tant sea.  Deep  answered  to  deep,  and  sudden 
bursts  of  wind  swept  over  the  plain  and  hurled 
forward  a  flying  figure  by  the  banks  of  the 
brawling  stream.  On  she  sped,  the  wind  driv- 
ing her  pitilessly,  mocking  her  distress  by 
whirling  suddenly  about  and  confronting  her 
struggling  form.  On  she  strove,  and  caught 
again  by  the  eddying  gust,  was  dashed  forward 
through  bending  grass.  Drops  from  the  heavy 
cloud  above  came  one  by  one,  first  with  a 
startling  splash  upon  her  face,  then  quicker, 
quicker,  quicker,  pelting  her  with  a  cruel  glee, 
till  she  stooped  beneath  their  thick-falling 
blows.  Yet  on  she  struggled  toward  the  deep 
baying  sea,  which  sounded  like  some  mighty 
monster  waiting  for  her  as  she  was  driver 
toward  it. 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA,  265 

And  iiow  full  before  her  was  the  broad 
ocean,  behind  her  still  the  driving  storm. 
Where  was  refuge  for  her  ?  what  harbor  from 
sea  and  storm  into  which  she  might  drag  her 
wearied  body  ?  She  could  not  tell,  and  yet  a 
dark  form  was  before  her ;  she  lifted  her  poor 
voice  and  cried,  — 

"  Father  Egbert !  " 

Suddenly,  as  when  in  the  darkness  a  light 
appears  in  the  window,  a  voice  answered,  — 

"  Who  calls  me  ?  " 

Rosella  followed  the  voice,  herself  speech- 
less. 

"Who  calls  me?"  he  asked  again,  and  his 
voice  was  like  a  lantern  flashing  in  the  dark- 
ness before  a  wanderer. 

"  Who  calls  me  ?     I  am  here." 

Rosella,  trembling,  drew  nearer  to  the  voice, 
trusting  in  it.  A  strong  arm  reached  out 
toward  her,  and  found  her,  and  drew  her  in, 
and  shut  the  door.  Rosella  and  the  Rose 
were  sheltered. 

The  morning  light  shone  on  the  sea  that 
ran  lightly  upon  the  shore.  It  glistened  in 
the  grass  and  bushes  that  were  still  hung 
vith  drops  of  rain.  What  eye  that  looked  on 
the  scene  but  saw  a  world  of  beauty,  the 


266  ROMANCE. 

mirror  of  perfection;  yet  what  voice  could 
speak  that  perfection?  None  indeed,  though 
perchance  there  were  some,  who,  walking 
then  through  this  scene,  shed  from  their 
thoughts  the  breath  of  desire  which  was 
redolent  of  words  needing  not  to  be  spoken. 
From  the  sea,  by  the  brook-side  there  walked 
two,  old  Egbert  and  the  maiden  Rosella. 

"  Dear  daughter,"  said  he,  "  it  was  along 
this  path  that  I  led  your  little  feet  on  that 
day,  years  ago,  when  the  King  and  Queen  rode 
by.  Can  you  remember  this  place  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know ;  some  faint  recollection 
comes  to  me.  Was  there  a  brook  near  by?" 

"  Even  here,  for  we  are  come  to  it,"  and 
so  saying,  they  parted  the  bushes  and  looked 
into  the  rippling  water. 

"  It  was  here,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  I 
left  you  playing  with  little  Philip  in  the 
brook,  whilst  I  went  back  to  the  cottage. 
Bitter  day  that  did  not  bring  you  back,  but 
the  weeping  boy  alone,  who  knew  only  that  a 
man  dressed  in  gold  and  scarlet  bore  you 
smiling  away." 

Rosella  stood  playing  with  the  Rose  which 
she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Let  us  bury  it  here,"  said  she,  and  stoop 
ing  down   by  a   cluster  of  rose-bushes,  thoy 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  267 

gently  opened  the  moist  earth.  Kosella  took 
the  Eose  which  she  had  home,  still  flushed 
with  beauty,  and  laid  it  softly  in  its  hed,  as  if 
it  might  suffer  from  rude  handling.  They 
stood  for  a  moment  smiling  down  upon  it. 
The  morning  was  in  them,  and  their  hearts 
were  opened  to  receive  the  breathing  of  the 
Rose. 

The  Kose,  in  its  earthly  bed,  lay  looking  up 
to  them,  and  the  breathed  fragrance  sought 
them :  — 

"Now  I  am  laid  in  my  old  home  by  the 
nestling  of  the  pleasant  waters,  in  the  hearing 
of  the  mighty  sea.  For  this  was  I  not  gath- 
ered ?  Dear  life  that  is  to  come  to  me  —  I 
know  not  what  it  shall  be,  but  it  must  be 
well;  it  was  well  even  in  the  King's  garden, 
though  I  knew  not  how ;  deep  in  the  stirring 
of  my  heart  I  felt  an  old  life  that  was  never 
quenched,  and  now  I  know  that  there  is  that 
coming  which  shall  keep  the  old  good  and 
build  a  greater  on  it." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  disturbance 
in  the  water;  they  looked  and  saw  a  dark 
object  floating  down  the  stream,  swaying  to 
i>ne  side  and  the  other. 

"  It  is  a  bush,"  said  Egbert. 

"  Tt  is  the  Rose-bush  !  "  exclaimed  Rosella, 


268  ROMANCE. 

who  recognized  its  familiar  form.  It  was, 
indeed,  the  Rosella  Rose-bush,  which,  flung 
by  the  Gardener's  rage,  had  fallen  upon  the 
brook  and  travelled  through  the  night  thus 
far,  when  it  was  arrested. 

"  Why  not  plant  it  here  with  the  Rose  ?  " 
said  Egbert. 

"Why,  so  we  will,"  said  the  pleased  girl, 
and  she  stooped  down. 

And  now  they  covered  the  Rose  at  the  roots 
of  the  bush,  and  turned  away,  gathering  the 
delicate  wild  roses  from  the  crowded  bushes. 

"Wear  this  now,  Marina,"  said  the  old 
man,  and  he  placed  a  rose  in  her  bosom  where 
once  Rosella  had  rested. 

The  brook  flows  on  into  the  sea,  and  still 
overhanging  its  waters  are  the  bushes  with 
their  burden  of  flowers.  Children  play  again 
in  the  rippling  stream,  sailing  their  tiny 
boats,  and  freighting  them  with  the  wild 
roses. 

"  Come,  Rosy,"  says  a  child,  "  let  us  gather 
some  of  the  strange  roses." 

"  Why,  they  are  not  strange  in  our  house," 
replies  the  little  girl.  "  We  have  a  fresh  one 
there  every  day." 

It  was  to  the  bushes  about,  that  this  Ilose« 


ROSE  AND  ROSELLA.  269 

bush  with  its  burdens  was  strange.  What 
flower,  so  like  themselves  yet  with  a  sweet 
richness  which  they  knew  not,  had  crept  in 
among  them  ?  The  traveller,  richly  laden 
with  wonderful  memories,  comes  home,  and 
unburdens  first  his  older,  sweeter  memories ; 
so  the  strange  rose  by  the  brook-side  breathed 
not  of  the  gorgeous  life  once  investing  it, 
but  of  the  earlier  days ;  yet  still  there  clung 
to  it  a  fragrance  and  a  color  which  came  not 
from  the  brook-side,  from  the  marsh,  or  from 
the  sea. 


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